


Daybreak in the Midnight City

by triedunture



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Supernatural, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Civil War (Marvel), Coming Out, Community: deancasbigbang, Crossover, M/M, Mutant Registration, Mutual Masturbation, Science Bros, Superpowers, Wing Kink, Wingfic, supervengers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:55:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 45,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marvel Universe Fusion/AU. With Yellow Eyes dead, life can get back to normal for Sam and Dean—or as normal as it can get for the Winchesters. But when a monster hunt takes a decidedly strange turn (even for them), Dean meets Castiel, a mutant hiding from the government and its draconian Registration Act, and Sam stumbles across Bruce Banner, a genius with a very large alter ego. Together, they realize the forces of Hell, man, and a mysterious new enemy calling himself Loki are conspiring to make their lives as abnormal as possible. They'll need to enlist the help of Tony Stark, known to the world as Iron Man, to face these dark forces in a battle for New York City.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue & Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure you know the Marvel Universe well enough to read this story? If you've seen The Avengers movie, or even just know that Iron Man and the Hulk exist, you will probably be fine. Are you a Marvel fan who only knows a little bit about Supernatural? You might be a little lost, but when has that ever stopped you from reading anything? Enjoy!
> 
> Chapter headers and art by [pandafoot105](http://pandafoot105.livejournal.com/). Click [here](http://pandafoot105.livejournal.com/80637.html) for her brill Art Masterpost.
> 
> Soundtrack available for download [here](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/642577.html). Soundtrack cover by [mizra](http://mizra.livejournal.com/). 
> 
> Special thanks to Betas and First Readers: Tone, [brokentoy](http://brokentoy.livejournal.com/), [akadougal](http://akadougal.livejournal.com/), & [Jihime47](http://jihime47.livejournal.com/).

[ ](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/439/33115)

The crossroads were dark and desolate. A smattering of small yellow flowers swayed in the breeze, huddled around the base of a rusted-out water tower. A slim hand pushed a mound of rich black earth over a hole in the center of the intersecting lanes. The figure stood, tall and whipcord thin, regally hawk-like. His eyes took slow stock of the emptiness around him. A slight shift in the wind, and a smile spread over his pale lips.

"I must say," he drawled, "this is all very dramatic. I can appreciate that."

He turned to face the newcomer, a shorter man in a long black coat, close-cropped hair, hands in his pockets, suit and tie meticulous. 

"Glad to have a suitable audience," Crowley said in a voice like smoke. His eyes narrowed on his summoner's pale, drawn features. He could smell power on this one. He reeked of cold ice. Not human. Not earthly at all. "I don't believe we've met."

"We have not, Demon King. I am Loki."

Crowley raised an imperious eyebrow. "You're not the only one who goes by that name around here, you know."

"Hm. Midgardians and their mixed-up mythos. When I rule over them, I will be sure to correct the error." Loki folded his hands behind his back and strode the length of the dirt road, stopping exactly three feet from the demon. 

" _When_ , not if?" Crowley asked.

"When," Loki assured him. 

Crowley smiled into the dark. "Sounds like someone is in the market for a deal."

"Very perceptive. You are the current ruler of the Muspellsheimr realm, are you not?" Loki shook his head. "I'm sorry, of _Hell_? These other names confuse me." 

A sympathetic shrug from Crowley. "My army is the largest and my hold, the strongest, so yes. I'm what you'd call the man in charge down below."

Loki hummed in understanding. "Ever since Lucifer's lieutenants proved unequal to the task of raising him, you mean. I hear they were defeated by mere humans. I should thank the mortals; it paves the way for my plan quite nicely."

Crowley smiled at the mention of the Winchesters. "They can be convenient at the strangest times. I certainly wasn't about to stop them when they killed Azazel and freed their righteous daddy's soul. The true believers can moan for Lucifer's return all they like, but they won't have a shot at breaking those seals for awhile yet, not after what happened in the desert. Now." Crowley gestured airily. "Tell me more about this plan of yours."

"Absolutely. But first," Loki turned and sniffed in the direction of the water tower, "we should dispatch the agent who is listening in."

A lone man stepped out from the shadow of the tower, the black line of an eyepatch slashed across his stony face. "Evening, gentlemen," Nick Fury said, cocking his weapon.

"Director," Loki answered. Then, to Crowley, "This piece can't be allowed to remain on the board. Could you possibly...?"

Crowley flexed his hand and made a fist. "Oh, I think I know just where to put him."

[ ](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/439/33459)

The Impala raced down the country road, scattering damp leaves on the glistening asphalt. Dean was in the driver's seat, pummeling the steering wheel to AC/DC's Back in Black and mangling the chorus under his breath. Sam looked up from the outdated map he'd unfolded across his thighs and shot a look at his brother.

"What?" Dean asked, not missing a beat. 

"Could you be a little less," Sam sighed, "celebratory?"

"Why? Life is good. As good as it gets for us, anyway. We killed Yellow Eyes, stopped the end of the world, and there's not a scratch on us. That, Sammy, calls for some celebration." Dean twisted the volume knob up a hair, bopping his head to the chorus.

Sam turned the music back down. "Quit it. It's giving me a headache," he muttered.

Dean finally turned to look at Sam's stiff profile, taking in the hard line of his mouth. "What is with you? You've been on edge ever since we closed the Devil's Gate. You still," he licked his dry lips, "having those weird dreams?" 

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "No, no visions."

"Because I had hoped all that demonic 'chosen one' mojo was wearing off."

"It is. It did. Forget about it. I'm just tired, okay?" Sam said.

Dean worried his lip between his teeth for a long moment, watching the road ahead. "Look, I know you had a real close call in South Dakota. But we made it out in one piece, right?" He glanced over at Sam once more. "Right?" 

"Yeah." Sam looked out the passenger window. 

Dean tried a different tack. "You were lucky, I tell you. Thought for sure that Jake guy had you when you turned your back. I mean, if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes—" Dean replayed that heart-stopping moment in his head, not for the first time: he could still see Sam in the mud, relief painted too soon across his face, and then, quicker than humanly possible, Jake was on his feet with murder in his eyes. And even quicker, he was down again. Sam must have moved like a cat or something, because he'd gotten the upper hand and it was Jake who'd ended up with the knife in his back instead of Sam. "Good thing he wasn't a match for you."

"Good thing," Sam echoed. 

Sensing that he wasn't going to get much more from his younger brother, Dean coughed and changed the subject. "Okay, so break it down for me. Tell me about these monster sightings." He reached over and rattled the map in Sam's lap for emphasis. 

Sam produced a sheaf of printouts from the backpack stuffed under his feet and began to read aloud. "Four separate eyewitness accounts in the last two weeks outside of Chenoweth, Oregon. Really remote, surrounded by state parks. A couple of campers reported seeing, quote, a _giant_ lumbering through the forest at night. There's also a few complaints from locals. Apparently they woke up one morning to find something had smashed their fence and ate a goat, five chickens, and—" Sam scrunched his nose. "—a decorative kumquat tree."

"Sounds like a troll," Dean muttered.

"Yeah, and listen to this: the woods outside the town? Famous for their networks of caverns and caves." Sam raised an eyebrow. 

"God, I hate trolls," Dean said. "Dad hunted one down in New Hampshire once. They smell like piss; you wouldn't remember, you were too little. But what's a troll doing on the west coast?" 

"Besides eating goats? No idea."

"Well, the good news is trolls are easy to kill. One dose of sunlight and they're about as dangerous as a seven-foot raisin. Just got to track it to its hidey-hole and flush it out." Dean craned his neck to look at a sign that was coming up ahead. "You hungry? I need food." He flicked on his turn signal as they approached a service station-cum-diner.

______________________

The bell above the door chimed as they entered. A television bolted to the wall was broadcasting a fuzzy feed from CNN. Senator Kelly and President Obama were debating the Registration Act, as usual. Sam and Dean glanced up at the screen as they walked inside.

" _— and for all that he lauded the merits of reaching across the aisle, the President has not been supportive of this legislation, which has received the support of both parties_ ," the senator was saying.

" _I vetoed the Registration measures because the fact is they were too far-reaching. Now, the super-majority has overruled that, despite research from independent experts who agree: we cannot lock up People of Power for crimes they may or may not commit with those powers at a future time,_ " the president said.

 _"What are these mutants and meta-humans trying to hide? And don't tell me it's their so-called privacy,"_ Kelly demanded, pounding the podium in front of him with the flat of his palm to emphasize his words. _"All we're asking is for citizens who possess extraordinary power to have it properly documented! And one of the premiere members of their community, Mr. Tony Stark, agrees with our position. We cannot stand idly by while—"_

Dean snorted and turned away. "Goddamn election coverage. Can't believe we're still debating this. Bring 'em all in, I say."

"Are you serious?" Sam turned a glare in Dean's direction. It was an old argument, and Dean had nothing but cold, steel certainty in his mind whenever it came up. "This is still America, Dean. We shouldn't be rounding up people just because they're different, not anymore."

"Yeah, but come on. Some of these dudes can level an entire city. You need a permit for a gun; you should get one if you can shoot lasers out of your ass like Iron Man."

"We don't have permits for our guns," Sam reminded him. 

"That's different." Dean swept past his brother, not bothering to respond to Sam's eye roll. 

While Dean considered the racks of shrink-wrapped beef jerky sticks and off-brand pop tarts, Sam examined a flaking map of the parkland that had been tacked up on the wall next to the cash register. The place was thick with woods and shot through with gorges and waterfalls. Sam pursed his lips; their quarry could be in any number of places.

"Excuse me," Sam turned to the elderly cashier who slouched on a stool behind the counter, "are you familiar with this area?" He swirled his index finger around a radius of twenty miles on the map. 

The woman shook her gray head and tipped it toward the cafe side of the store. "You'll be wanting to speak to that one, I imagine," she said. Dean appeared at Sam's side, a packet of peanut M&M's dangling from his hand. They looked over at the only customer sitting huddled at the end of the dingy counter, hunched over a burger that he was eating in small, methodical bites. Early thirties, dark hair, ill-fitting suit and overcoat, strange clothes for the summer heat—he could have been a low-level government employee stopping for lunch on his way to somewhere else. He didn't exactly scream "local." 

"Him?" Dean asked, setting his M&M's on the cashier's counter. Sam watched him rake his eyes appraisingly over the guy as well. A familiar frisson passed through Sam, but he ignored it.

"Mm hm." She tapped a few keys on her machine. The till opened with a clang. "Lives up on the mountain. Owns a lot of it, I think. Don't know his name, he's real quiet. But he comes down once in awhile, always wearing that coat of his."

Sam and Dean shared a look, the sort that said _Worth a shot? We've got nothing else to go on_ , then paid the woman and headed over to the lunch counter. The man in the overcoat sensed their approach, his bright blue eyes swinging up to them. He paused mid-chew. 

"Sorry to interrupt," Sam began (he always led when they went the nice route), "but if you've got a moment, we'd like to ask you a few questions." The Winchesters flipped their trusty Federal Marshal badges from their back pockets for the man's perusal. 

He eyed them and the badges with a squinty, distrustful gaze. "About?" His voice was a stony scrape, like he didn't use it all that much. 

"Seen or heard anything unusual up in the mountains lately, Mister...?" Dean asked, stuffing his fake ID back into his pocket. 

A long pause from the stranger. His eyes dropped to his plate, where the remains of a hamburger bun sat soaking in drippings and ketchup. "You're here about the pranks?" He neatly avoided providing his name. 

Sam's eyebrows lifted. "Is that what you think they are?"

The man tipped his head to the side. His version of a shrug, it looked like. "What else could it be?" he said. 

Another glance passed between the brothers, and Dean gave an imperceptible shake of his head. "Let's say these pranksters were camping out near your property. Any idea where they might go for shelter? A cave, maybe?" Dean asked. 

The man didn't bother looking up this time. He pulled out a few bills and laid them on the counter beside his plate. "I'm sorry, I couldn't say. I try to stay out of any business but my own." He picked up a paper bag filled with what looked like groceries; Dean tilted his head to peek inside as the man bent over. Sam could see a heel of bread in there along with some leafy celery tops. "Pardon me," the guy said as he squeezed past them and headed for the door.

They watched the man in the long coat walk through the parking lot, then cross the road and march up a small dusty footpath, his suit and tie at odds with the rolling greenland around him. 

"Was that weird? That was weird, right?" Dean turned to Sam with a frown. 

Sam ran a hand through his hair. "So maybe he doesn't look like your average mountain man. You think he's keeping a big, ugly pet?"

"Nah." Dean sniffed. "Bag full of health food. Trolls eat meat."

"And kumquats, apparently." 

"Yeah. That's weird too," Dean said. "This whole thing is weird." A sleepy waitress appeared from the back of the diner, waving a carafe of coffee at them in question. Sam shook his head in apology.

"No weirder than any other job. Let's just hope we can track this thing to its hiding place before sundown," he said as they elbowed their way out of the shop.

Dean squinted in the sun's glare. "Let's hope." Sam followed his gaze and watched the last of the tan overcoat disappear over the ridge.

______________________

The cave was a wide slit in the granite rock, ringed with lush mosses and damp leaves. The wet weather had given the boys some grief, but the unmistakable impression of a huge footprint in the mud outside the cavern opening was proof enough that they had the right place. Dean went down on one knee beside it, measuring it by five hand spans at least.

He whistled. "Big boy."

Sam adjusted the strap of the gear bag he'd slung over his shoulder. "Nightfall's coming soon. We should do this before it gets too dark." 

"Yeah." Dean held his hand out, and Sam put a rifle in it. "Be careful. Trolls don't wake easy, but better safe than dead. Plus the stink. Whew."

Sam crept closer to the opening, peering into the thick darkness. Deep, lumbering breaths resonated from the bottom. Almost reminded Dean of the Impala's engine. Sam turned to whisper over his shoulder.

"It's definitely inside. The cave doesn't go very far back. I think we can throw the flares from here, flush it out that way." 

"I like it," Dean said, standing and cocking his rifle. "You light him up, I'll gun him down." He drew the rifle against his shoulder and took aim at the mouth of the cave. "Whenever you're ready."

The flares cracked and spat fire in Sam's hands, leaving a red trail of sparks in the air when he lobbed them into the blackness. They hissed like mad until their sound was overpowered by a roar that echoed through the valley. 

"Oh crap," Sam muttered, grabbing his own gun. 

"I don't remember trolls being that loud," Dean said seconds before a huge monster erupted from the cave, shattering stone in its wake. Its skin was a deep hunter green, its hair was black and shaggy, and it wore a pair of tattered trousers that barely covered its massive thighs. And its eyes—its eyes glowed. "Definitely don't remember trolls being green."

The Winchesters fired. The shots were good, but the bullets seemed to bounce off the creature without leaving a mark. The sunlight clearly was not slowing it down as planned. The thing just screamed at them in an animal voice, flexing its huge arms in the air. Dean's eyes widened. 

"Not a troll, _not a troll_!" Dean grabbed his brother by his jacket sleeve and took off running. The monster followed, bowling over trees like they were toothpicks, splinters spraying over Sam and Dean's heads. 

"What the hell is that thing?" Sam yelled over another roar. Dean lurched to the left, pulling Sam with him and narrowly avoiding a Pinto-sized fist that smashed into the ground.

"I don't know! Just move!"

Sam glanced over his shoulder to see the green beast gaining ground, running half-bent like a gorilla. It reached for him, its huge palm swiping aside an oak. Sam stumbled, and Dean stumbled with him, still clutching his arm. They rolled down a shallow embankment, sharp rocks jabbing them in their sides. Dean struggled to to his feet without pause, caked in leaves and dirt and pulling Sam along behind him. A shadow passed overhead and the brothers looked up. The monster loomed over them, its corded arms raised for a blow.

[](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/439/36698)

"Dean," Sam whispered. He raised his free hand as Dean's grip tightened on his elbow. 

"Hey!" a gravelly voice called from the ridge above. All eyes, including the green giant's, turned toward the higher ground, where the man in the long overcoat stood beckoning to the monster. "Come on! This way, I'm right here!" He waved his arms like a semaphore. 

The giant snarled and swung its fist in his direction, clumsy and slow enough that the stranger ducked out of the way, letting a boulder shatter in his place instead. 

"Civilians," Dean muttered. Then, shouting and waving his own arms, "Get away! This thing's rabid!"

The nameless man paid him no attention. When the beast drifted back towards the Winchesters, he picked up a stone and flung it, hitting the creature square on the back of its head. It gave a small grunt of surprise and roared again. One thick green arm struck out in Sam's direction, sending him flying into the bramble. 

"Sammy!" Dean moved to help his brother, but the hulking monster stepped in his path. Dean's gaze tracked up its massive body. It was heaving like a steam engine, just staring down at him. Dean froze, thinking that any sudden movement would provoke it again. 

"Hey, guy," he called over his shoulder to the man in the overcoat. "Now would be a great time for you to get the hell out of Dodge."

"No." He was on Dean's far right, still high on the ridge. "I'm not leaving."

"Your funeral," Dean said. He swallowed. The creature sniffed the air and bent to look Dean in the eye. Its dayglow irises reflected his own face back at him. 

" **No cage** ," the creature rumbled. Its voice was like broken thunder, but it was definitely speaking English. Dean licked his lips. What the hell was this thing? 

The creature roared, its breath hot and rushing like the wind. Dean took that as his cue to run for it. He turned and took off blindly into the woods, crashing over bushes and under whipping branches. He could hear the monster's heavy foot-thuds behind him, slamming into the ground with enough power to shake the trees. Dimly, Dean heard the man with the rough voice shouting something, but it was impossible to make out the warning.

Too late, he realized it must have been about the cliff.

Dean's boots teetered on the edge, his arms pinwheeling for balance. A hundred feet below, the silver thread of a river crawled over a rocky riverbed. He turned to look behind him, his stomach sinking; the monster was still coming. Dean put his arms up in a last-ditch effort at defense, and he would have shut his eyes except—

Except the man in the overcoat was there too, somehow, running toward Dean from where the ridge dropped off to the right. And he was shrugging out of that coat, tearing off his blue necktie, hollering something Dean couldn't hear over the sound of the trees being bulldozed. Dean blinked. The baggy white shirt was discarded and—was that some kind of leather harness under the guy's clothes? 

There were weirder ways to die, but none came to Dean's mind. 

Just before Dean was hit head-on, he saw the nameless man touch a clasp in the center of his chest. The black leather straps that criss-crossed his torso fell away and two huge white feathered wings rose from behind his shoulders. 

Okay, Dean thought, _this_ was the weirdest way to die. He'd never thought he was the type to have religious visions right before he met his maker, but hey, there was a first time for everything. Even angels. Which, huh, Dean was going to have to admit he was wrong when he saw Sam again. If he ever saw Sam again.

And then the nine-foot not-troll barreled straight into Dean and sent him over the edge. It was like being hit by a semi-truck. Dean heard a bone snap in his forearm on impact, but the sudden flash of pain was deadened by the stomach-dropping sensation of falling over the cliff. He reached out with his good arm, hoping to grab anything that might save him. His fingers closed around warm flesh. 

Dean's eyes snapped open (when had he shut them?) and watched a blur of green pass by. The monster plummeted, screaming in anger the whole way. The impact was like a bomb going off in the riverbed below. Dean couldn't make out the creature for all the dust that was thrown into the air. 

The air. He was still in the air. 

Dean looked up at the angel who was clutching him, one hand wrapped around his good arm, the other clutching the ball of his shoulder. His great white wings flapped wildly, sending gusts of wind into Dean's upturned face, and his face was a mask of determination.

"Hold on," the man said.

"Um," Dean said because, really, this was not how he'd expected the troll hunt to go.

"I don't want to drop you," the angel said through gritted teeth.

Dean grasped him tighter with his good arm, his injured one dangling at his side. "I don't want that either, trust me."

The wings beat the air again, and Dean was borne back to solid ground. They landed in an ungraceful pile, limbs tangled and Dean's broken arm screaming in pain when it was jostled. 

"Jesus!" Dean cradled it against his chest, rolling onto his back in the dirt. 

"Let me see," the man said, and touched Dean's arm in exactly the wrong way. Before Dean lost consciousness from the pain, his last thought was of Sam and whether he was okay.

______________________

When Dean woke up, his first thought was _fucking **shit**_ because his arm was broken and bleeding, the bone jutting through the skin. His stomach lurched at the sight, so he looked away. The other details registered one by one: he was inside, he was on a bed, he wasn't in the woods being chased by some mysterious monster anymore. These were all massive improvements, sure, but his arm was still on fire and his blood was staining the white bedsheets red and he didn't see Sam, fuck, Sammy, where was he?

He whimpered, clamping down on the noise before it built into a wail in his throat. The blood gushed from the wound near the inside bend of his elbow, spurts that matched his racing heartbeat. Dean reached for a blanket, some sheet, anything he could rip into a bandage. But a gentle hand braced against his sore shoulder, keeping him flat on his back. 

"Be still," the strange man said. He was still shirtless. His massive feathered wings rustled behind him. Dean shut his eyes, then opened them again. The wings were still there.

"My brother." Dean's voice came out like a scratched record. 

"One thing at a time," he said.

"Who are you?" Dean rasped. "What do you want?" Because he still didn't believe angels could be real, and if they were, he couldn't believe one would save him. 

The man didn't answer, just produced a long knife with a black handle. A kitchen knife. Dean's eyes widened for one second before he tried to rise again, but the man was either freakishly strong or Dean was kitten-weak from blood loss, because he was easily stopped by another push at his shoulder.

"Hold on. I can stop the pain." The man slipped the blade over his own palm, leaving a long red trail of glistening blood. Then he reached for Dean's broken arm. 

Dean jerked it away, grimacing. "What the hell—?"

"Please believe me." The man raised his intense blue stare and locked eyes with Dean. "My name is Castiel," the angel said.

"Dean," he replied, not knowing why he went with the truth. His mouth was dry and tasted like he'd been sleeping a long time. "Dean Winchester."

"My blood can heal you, Dean," Castiel said. He held out his bloody palm once more. "Let me help."

There were a million reasons not to let this stranger press his bleeding hand to an open wound, hepatitis being a big one. That, and it sounded crazy. But so did giant green monsters hiding in caves, so Dean stayed still and let it happen. 

He hissed through his teeth as Castiel touched his arm, because goddamn, that hurt. Then a weird kind of heat coursed through his veins, a tingling that ran up and down his arm like electricity. A bone crunched, but Dean felt no pain. He stared up at the angel, his mouth hanging open, unable to look away from those blue eyes. 

"Did heaven send you?" Dean asked. "Did they finally decide to fight? I didn't—I thought you guys weren't real."

Castiel frowned, his forehead creasing in confusion. "Please, I need to concentrate." He closed his eyes, and Dean shut his mouth.

A few moments later, Castiel sighed and lifted his hand. Dean gaped at his arm, flexing it experimentally. The wound was closed, the bone was knitted back into place. Only a drying smear of blood remained. 

"That's amazing," Dean said. 

Castiel turned away and busied himself with bandaging his own palm with a pad of thick gauze and medical tape. "You are probably thirsty." He stood and moved to what must have been the kitchen, what with the sounds of cabinet doors banging and water running. Dean took stock of his surroundings for the first time, now that he wasn't distracted by pain.

The bedroom was simple, no photographs on the walls, no kitschy items arranged on the dresser or bedside table. There was a stack of folded black and tan cloth laying on a nearby chair, leather from the look of it, some tools that Dean didn't recognize stacked on a low workbench opposite the bed, a dressmaker's form standing headless in the corner. Dean saw the form was criss-crossed with leather straps very similar to those he'd seen Castiel remove in the woods.

"I make them," Castiel said, startling Dean from his thoughts. He stood at the bedside and handed Dean the cool glass of water. "The harnesses. Some custom pieces as well. Bags, belts, clothing. I sell them online." He nodded to another corner of the room, where Dean could see piles of black and brown straps, gleaming with oil. 

Dean swallowed. "Pretty kinky."

Castiel lifted a shoulder, not meeting Dean's eyes. "I don't ask my customers what they use them for. It's just a job. I need to eat."

"I didn't know angels needed day jobs. Or food." Dean took a long gulp of water and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Are you all stationed on earth? How come a little thing like, I don't know, the world almost ending didn't warrant a hello?" His gaze skated across Castiel's chest, and Castiel seemed to remember his state of half-nakedness. He fumbled with something on the floor, which turned out to be his own complicated harness. He watched as Castiel folded his wings tightly behind his back, then slipped the harness over his head and latched it to hold them down. 

He glanced over at Dean, meeting his curious gaze. "I'm sorry," Castiel said with a resigned sigh. "I'm not an angel. I'm not from heaven." He went to the small closet in the corner and rifled through the hangers before pulling a white collared shirt free. 

Dean pressed his lips together, then asked, "Then what are you?" 

"I'm." He shrugged into the shirt, his back still to Dean. He tucked the tips of his long white wings into the back of his trousers along with the tail of his shirt. "A genetic minority." 

"You're a mutant?" 

The line of Castiel's shoulders went rigid. He didn't turn around. "That is one word for it, yes." 

Dean slumped back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. "Huh." He paused. So Sam still hadn't won this argument about angels. He'd be pissed to hear that. As soon as Dean found him. "I probably sounded kind of nuts with that end of the world stuff, didn't I?" 

"A little," Castiel said, finally turning. He retrieved his tan overcoat, now stained with mud and grass, from where it was puddled on the floor and slipped it on. Dean saw why he wore so many baggy layers; the bulk of his wings was hidden beneath all those clothes. 

"You're a secret mutie," Dean amended. 

"And you are not Federal Marshal Bon Scott," Castiel countered. "When you and that other man walked into the store, he called you by your real name." Dean wondered what else Castiel had heard; probably their whole conversation about Registration. Which, okay, awkward. Castiel tipped his head to the side. "It seems we both have some explaining to do. Why don't you go first?"

Dean drew a deep breath. No sense trying to bullshit the guy who had saved his life, he thought. Even if he was a mutant. 

"Here's the deal. I'll tell you what I can, but then we have to find my brother. The kid who was with me—that's Sammy." 

Castiel nodded, and Dean started on the whole spiel, a story about ghosts and demons and a family that was getting smaller and smaller. Castiel sat at the foot of the bed. And he listened.


	2. Chapter 2

[ ](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/439/34005)

Sam woke up with a pinecone poking into the small of his back and twigs tangled in his hair. He blinked up at a midnight blue sky, almost leached of sunlight. One breath in, he remembered the green monster. One breath out, he realized he couldn't hear Dean. He sat up, listening to the growing chorus of insects.

"Dean?" he called. 

No answer. 

Stumbling to his feet, Sam held his aching ribs and followed the path of destruction that twisted through the forest. He found Dean's rifle in some tall grasses, flattened into a useless pancake in a giant footprint. He left it where it was and broke into a jog. "Dean!" 

He remembered his Blackberry and pulled it out of his jacket pocket, stabbing at the buttons. The signal was faint, but he called Dean's latest number. It went straight to voicemail. 

Either the phone had ended up like the rifle or—

Sam refused to consider it. They'd survived Yellow Eyes, they'd survived the gate to Hell. Dean was fine. He had to be. 

The trail ended at a cliff, and when Sam peered over the edge he could see the faint outline of a small white body in the middle of what looked like a crater. "Oh god," he whispered to himself. 

He looked around wildly until he found the nearest thing to a path down the cliff face: a steep slope on the rockside. Sam half-crawled, half-skidded down the rocky path until he reached the riverbed. Icy water soaked into his boots and socks as he splashed through the river to reach the naked, motionless body. 

It wasn't Dean. Sam didn't know whether to be glad or terrified that he was still missing. Either way, this man needed Sam's help. 

"Hey. Can you hear me?" Sam shook the man gently by the shoulders. He was older, maybe mid-forties, with dark curly hair and a five o'clock shadow. Somehow he didn't seem to have a scratch on him. His eyes opened in fits and starts, a deep dark brown. 

His licked his lips, his gaze fastening on Sam. "Oh. Oh, no," he murmured. "Did I hurt anyone?"

Sam frowned. "Uh— Do you remember what happened?"

The man sat up, his hand pressed to his forehead with a groan. He surveyed the pile of shattered river rocks surrounding him, then looked up at the cliff high above. 

"I fell?" he guessed.

Sam shrugged out of his jacket to give him something to cover his nakedness. The man accepted it with a nod of thanks, draping it over his lap. 

"I didn't see. I was knocked out," Sam said. "There was this—" He paused, wondering how much to tell this man. He might have just been an innocent bystander, some nudist hiker who had gotten caught in the middle. But he must have seen Dean, so Sam decided to risk it. "There was a giant green...thing. I know it sounds weird," he backpedaled as the man's face took on a crumpled look of despair, "but it was real. And it was chasing my brother, and if you saw which direction he went— Please, you have to believe me."

"I believe you, I do." The man scrubbed his face with his palm. "I don't remember what happened to your brother."

Sam closed his eyes in a moment, then steeled himself. "Can you walk? We need to get out of here in case that thing decides to come back." 

"It—he won't. Not for a while, at least." The man offered a wan smile. "I'm Bruce Banner. And I'm sorry. For whatever I've done here."

The words laid heavy in Sam's brain for a long moment before he understood what they meant. " _Doctor_ Banner? The guy who—? Harlem, two years ago?" Sam drew back, his eyes wide. "Oh my god." 

Banner hung his head, his rueful smile slipping. "Yeah. That—that's about the size of it."

"But you—" Sam thought back to all the news reports he'd watched on shitty motel TV's, blurry green footage, Dean mumbling about the supernatural becoming way too mainstream for his taste. "They said you were killed."

"Close enough." Bruce struggled to his feet with a grunt and a crack of his spine, tying Sam's jacket around his waist like a kilt. Sam rose as well. "I ran and hid. Far away." He chewed his lower lip and looked at the destruction around them. "I didn't want this to happen, not again."

Sam frowned. "So why come back to terrorize a small mountain town?" 

"That wasn't the plan. The Other Guy—the, uh, Hulk—I've contained him ever since Harlem. Not a single incident." He ran a hand through his thick hair. "But I had to come back; I stowed away on a few cargo ships just to get here. It was a risk, but I need to find someone for reasons—" he looked Sam in the eye, a determined gaze, "—more dire than I can say." He shook his head. "But I was on SHIELD's radar. I'd barely stepped onto American soil before they tried to bring me in. Said I needed to be registered." He looked up at Sam through the fall of his disheveled hair. "The Other Guy didn't want to sign any paperwork, I guess. He took over. Next thing I know, here we are." 

Sam calmed his racing heart—being two feet from a man who could turn into an unstoppable rage monster at any moment would pick up anyone's pulse—and concentrated on Banner's mind. If he reached out just a little, like a brush of arms in a crowd, he could feel a deep well of sincerity and desperation. The guy was telling the truth. Sam delved another inch, and everything was green and terrible and full of boiling acid-anger. It was like a sliver of glass punched deep into his mind, to feel what was inside Bruce Banner. Sam took a shuddering breath, then stuck out his hand. 

"I'm Sam Winchester," he said. "I was tracking you—him. I thought you were something else. As far as I know, your only victims were farm animals." 

"Thank god," Banner sighed, shaking Sam's hand. 

"But I still need to find my brother, Dean," Sam reminded him. 

"Yeah, of course." He squinted up at the darkened sky. "I'll help you. I can't just—I need to know your brother's all right, too."

The climb out of the ravine was a lot worse than the slide down, especially with Bruce making such slow time, a consequence of being barefoot on the sharp rocks. 

"So tell me," Bruce called to Sam, who was scaling the rock face above him. "What were you two doing hunting a monster in the middle of nowhere?"

"It's a complicated story," Sam said. 

"That's my favorite type of story." 

Sam flashed him a quick grin over his shoulder. "Well, for starters, let me tell you about trolls."

______________________

By the time they reached the summit, night had truly fallen. Sam pulled his mini flashlight from his pocket, but the weak yellow beam didn't do much. Sam and Bruce stumbled into holes and over freshly fallen logs as they made their way through the woods, calling for Dean every few minutes. The plan was to head for the base of the mountain where the Impala was parked; hopefully Dean was waiting there. Sam's voice was getting hoarse and he was starting to wonder if they should wait until morning to continue. It felt like they were just going in circles.

"So. Demons. They're real," Bruce said during one of their breaks between shouting.

"I know it sounds crazy—" Sam began.

"Crazier than surviving fifty thousand atomic bombs' worth of gamma radiation and turning into a green monster whenever I get angry?" Bruce asked with a laugh. "I'm a scientist, Sam. I've stopped being surprised at the amount of stuff humans don't understand yet. What you just described—demons, hell, ghosts—that could be evidence of dimensional rifts." He shook his head. "It's a shame you hunters haven't studied these things."

Sam bristled, a flash of his dad's face in his mind's eye. "Sorry we didn't get any usable data. We were a little busy, you know, saving lives," he bit out.

Bruce stopped in his tracks, clearly taken aback by Sam's sudden defensiveness. "But don't you ever wonder? You've only seen the uglies that cause trouble. Think of what else might be out there, the things we haven't discovered yet, the things that haven't given you a reason to hunt them." Sam's troubled stare was Bruce's only answer, and he clacked his hands together in a nervous gesture. "I'm sorry, it's none of my business—"

"That's right, it's not," Sam broke in. "The paranormal isn't some science project for you to play with. We hunt it, we find it, we kill—" Sam's words died in his throat. Because they weren't his, he realized. They were Dean's. Black and white, human and monster: it was easy to get caught up in that kind of thinking, which was half the reason Sam had left for Stanford in the first place. 

Also? Maybe it wasn't such a great idea to be arguing with the guy who could turn into the Hulk when he got angry.

Sam's widened eyes swept up to Bruce, who seemed to be reading his mind if the lopsided smile was any indication. 

"I can take a little healthy back-and-forth, Sam," he said. "It's fine."

"I didn't mean _you_ , obviously. I meant wendigos and chupacabras and trolls and—" Sam paused and decided he couldn't dig his way out of this one, and there was no point in trying. "Never mind. We should keep moving." 

Bruce blinked. "Chupacabras are real?" He slapped a mosquito from his bare arm and picked his way over a bramble bush. "Did not see that coming."

"Not many do," Sam said. He glanced over at the other man, who looked so strange walking through the woods practically naked. Banner looked almost vulnerable like this. It was hard to reconcile this man with the thing Sam had seen that afternoon. "So this information you have," Sam said, "who do you need to get it to?" 

Bruce bit his lip. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he said.

Sam shrugged. "Try me."

"Tony Stark," Banner said. 

Sam almost dropped the flashlight. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to form the words. "You do know he's, um, kind of a super-powered pro-registration mad scientist?" 

"Yes, Kolkatta did have wifi. I know who he is." Bruce turned to face the dark woods once more, a mildly annoyed look plastered across his features. "But I've been monitoring gamma signatures in the upper atmosphere. I was hoping to find a way to—" He sighed. "It doesn't matter. What matters is, I stumbled across something big. Communication signals that shouldn't exist, piggybacking on low-level gamma waves that are nearly undetectable, almost undecodable. I can't prove anything, not with my equipment, and Stark Industries has the only instruments in the world capable of analyzing these waves. We need to figure out who's sending these messages."

"Why?" Sam asked. "What did the messages say?"

Bruce met Sam's eyes with a grim pinch to his mouth. "'The earth is almost ours.'"

______________________

Dean stepped carefully over a fallen tree limb, picking at the dried blood on his sweat-stained tee shirt. Beside him, Castiel stepped lightly over the rocky ground while holding aloft an illuminated camping lantern.

"We really should wait till morning to search for your brother," Castiel murmured. It wasn't the first time he'd brought up this point. 

Dean scowled into the shadows. "He wouldn't wait if it was me," he said. "He would head to the car first, so that's where we'll go. If he's not there, I'll figure something out."

Castiel's long overcoat snagged on a prickly bush; he jerked it free and kept moving. "Your brother, Sam," he said slowly, carefully, "you would do anything for him." It wasn't a question, more like testing a statement he'd just realized was true. 

Dean shrugged and tried not to think of that night in South Dakota. Dean's heart climbed into his throat; what would he have done if Sam had died? 

Simple: whatever he had to do. 

"Yeah," he answered in a rough voice. "He's my little brother." 

The light of the electric lantern caught Castiel's gaze, a deep, confused blue that bored into Dean. 

"What?" Dean groused. 

"Nothing. It's only—" Castiel ducked his head, his eyelashes casting butterfly shadows on his face. "I was wondering what it's like. To care about someone like that."

"You don't have any brothers?"

Castiel shut his eyes for a quick moment, just a blink lengthened by the tension in his face. "I do, actually. Many siblings, in fact." His throat bobbed as he swallowed, but he didn't elaborate.

Dean went at him from another angle. "Well, you swooped down out of nowhere when that thing came after me and Sam, right? You must know a little bit about wanting to protect people."

Maybe it was just the play of shadows shifting on Castiel's back, but Dean thought he saw his wings twitch under his clothes. "I never planned on...swooping," Castiel said. "I had a bad feeling about the creature in the forest; I knew something strange was going on, but I didn't want to draw any undue attention. I followed you to make sure whatever it was—and you—stayed away from my property."

Speaking of Castiel's property, Dean wondered where it ended. They had been walking for nearly an hour as night crept in, and they were no closer to any landmark Dean could recognize. "You own a lot of land, huh? Leather daddies must pay well."

"I need a lot of space," Castiel said. 

"Got to stretch your wings, Cas?" Dean asked with a raised eyebrow.

Castiel shot him a look, one that Dean couldn't figure out: either unease or annoyance at the new nickname. Not Dean's fault that 'Castiel' was a mouthful.

"I don't normally let my wings out, and never during daylight hours, not until today. It's too risky. Every hiker has a camera phone these days, and—" He took a shuddering breath. "My power isn't like super strength or elemental control. I don't look normal to the outside world, so my only choice was to leave the world behind." 

Dean mulled this over as they continued through the trees. The idea that this mutant had showed his wings to save Dean's life when every fiber of his being was telling him to keep them under wraps—that was a big deal. The whole thing rubbed Dean the wrong way.

"Look, I know things are a little crazy right now with the Registration Act and all, but so what if people find out you're a mutant? What are you so afraid of?" 

Castiel lifted his lantern to examine Dean's face more closely, his brow furrowed in concentration. Dean reeled back a few inches. He wasn't used to anyone being so firmly inside his personal space without his leave, but then again, this was a guy who rarely left his mountainside and spoke to other people even less. He probably didn't even know he was doing it.

"What am I _afraid_ of?" Castiel repeated. "Has it crossed your mind, Dean, why I was so quick to believe your stories about ghosts and demons?"

"You've...seen them too?" Dean guessed. 

"No. But people who call me a freak or abomination—I know what they want to do to me. And it doesn't stop at dissection," he said. "It isn't difficult to believe in demons when you've seen what humans are capable of." And with that, Castiel turned away and strode on through the woods. 

Dean blinked, watching the light recede in Cas's hand. "Hey, wait!" He ran a few yards to catch up. "Humans, uh, non-powered people, I mean, we're not _all_ bad."

"I will remember that when SHIELD throws me into the Negative Zone," Castiel growled. At Dean's confused look, he said, "The trans-dimensional holding cell built specially for those who resist registration? The government says it's just a temporary measure, but it's really a prison for those too powerful to control and those accused of noncompliance."

"So just comply! Sign a piece of paper, boom, all done," Dean said. "You're not one of those flatten-a-city types, so—"

"Blood tests are required to determine the extent of registrants' mutations. What do you think will happen when they see what my blood can do?" Castiel looked at Dean, the anger draining from his eyes to be replaced by a deep tiredness that made him seem much older. "I'm not brave enough to stand against them, Dean. I'm not a hero. I'd rather hide where it's safe."

"You didn't hide today," Dean said. 

"And I'm starting to regret it," Castiel snapped. He turned and continued walking down the ill-lit path. "As soon as I'm done leading you back to your car, I'll go home and forget this ever happened. Please do the same." 

Dean was about to retort when he heard his name being called from far away. He whirled around, trying to figure out the direction it had come from. "Sammy?" he called.

"Dean!" Not as faint that time. Dean and Castiel jogged toward the sound of his voice. They ducked under a few branches, and they saw the bob of Sam's flashlight shining through the trees. 

"Sam, I'm here!" Dean made his way to a small clearing where the trees gave way to ferns. Sam turned, his face thrown into stark angles of relief by the light of Castiel's lantern. Dean saw he had another guy with him, someone who apparently didn't believe in shirts or pants. The Winchester brothers were showing a talent for befriending the severely over- and under-dressed. 

"Thank god," Sam said, catching sight of Dean and Castiel. "Dean, we need to go. Now. Bruce—"

That was when the deafening whir of the helicopter blades rose over the ridge above them, and the floodlight crashed on, bathing all four of them in a white circle. They shaded their eyes with their hands against the glare of the lights and stared up at the sleek black shape hovering in the air. Dean saw a gray eagle emblazoned on the side of the helicopter's door. 

"Oh crap," Dean said under his breath.

" _All of you, place your hands behind your head and lie facedown on the ground_ ," a megaphoned voice intoned from the chopper, " _by order of SHIELD_."

Dean reached for a gun that wasn't there, remembering too late that he'd dropped his rifle in the woods and his glock was sitting in the trunk of the Impala. He looked over at Castiel, who was clutching a hand to his chest like he was having a heart attack—no, Dean realized, not a heart attack, just grasping the latch that kept his wings pinned down under his shirt. No way was Cas going to let these spooks take him, Dean could see it in his eyes. 

"Fight or flight?" Dean shouted to the other three men over the sound of the chopper's engines. 

The man with Sam—Bruce or whatever—unwound Sam's jacket from his hips and handed it back to him, standing naked under the bright lights. 

"I can't fly," he said, "so that decides that." He closed his eyes, tipping his head back. "You might want to start running." And in two seconds flat, right in front of Dean's eyes, the guy morphed from a scrawny nobody into the huge green thing that had been chasing them a few hours ago: big square teeth gnashing in a wide mouth, huge muscled shoulders bunched in rage, legs thick as tree trunks, all covered in green skin.

"What the living fuck," Dean said, taking a large step back. The thing roared at the sky.

"This is Bruce _Banner_ ," Sam yelled over the noise. 

The good news was that this time around, the Hulk didn't seem to be interested in anything but the SHIELD helicopter. He leapt into the air and clung to the chopper, dragging it down with the sheer weight of his massive body. The turret guns lit up, but the gunfire only made the guy angrier. He screamed into the black void of the chopper's windscreen and tore two of the rotating blades off its top, as easy as plucking petals from a daisy. Dean's eyes widened.

The Hulk landed feet-first on the ridge above them, scattering rocks down the cliffside. The sky filled with smoke and the chopper's flickering lights. A few human shapes bailed out of the helicopter's belly, rolling toward the ground. The Hulk snarled and scooped a straggler out of the chopper and shook him like a ragdoll. 

"No," Castiel whispered somewhere behind Dean. The sound of fabric rustling was drowned out by another roar. The Hulk's arm reared back, and the tiny form of the human was flung far afield, sailing through the air toward the side of another mountain.

"Jesus—" Dean ran forward one step before realizing he was too far away to do anything. But Castiel had already stripped out of his coat and shirt and taking to the air on his white wings. He moved like a bullet, almost faster than Dean could see, catching the SHIELD agent right before he crashed into the rocks. Dean watched him carry the black-clad figure down below the treeline. Sam stared, his mouth agape, his arm extended as if reaching out in an aborted attempt to help. 

Sam worked the words out of his throat. "Uh. He's got. Wow." 

"His name's Castiel," Dean said with a smug grin. "And no, he's not a real angel, just a mutie, so quit drooling."

Before Sam could answer, a cool whoosh of air heralded Castiel's return. He stood shirtless with the brothers, his jaw set, staring unblinkingly up at the ridge. The Hulk didn't seem to be chasing the other humans who had escaped; he was busy gnawing on the metal shell of the chopper like a chew toy.

"The agents are scattered. We should move," Castiel said. He folded his wings tight against his back, flicking his discomfited gaze at Sam, who mumbled an apology before dropping his stare.

"Yeah, well, you're coming with us," Dean said to Castiel. "No way are you waltzing back to your little house on the hill now. This place is crawling with spooks and they know what you are. If you'd just let Big & Ugly take care of it—"

"That agent was going to die," Castiel said in a quiet voice. "I couldn't let him fall."

Dean studied Castiel's earnest face for a long moment. "Not a hero, my ass," he said. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

"Not without Bruce," Sam insisted. "It's important. Seriously, end of the world-type important."

"What, again?" Dean braced himself as the Hulk lumbered down the cliff face, the ground shaking every time he landed a jump. "Okay. How do we get him back to normal?" The Hulk seemed to be losing interest in the decimated helicopter. He sniffed at it and tossed it into a ravine to the east, where the resulting explosion lit up the night sky. 

Dean turned away from the fireball, his arm instinctively coming up to protect Castiel from the explosion. The prickly heat abated, and Dean blinked the ashes out of his eyes to find Cas staring back at him, a smudge of soot on his cheek.

"You okay?" Dean asked. Castiel nodded in silence.

Dean cleared his throat and picked up the discarded overcoat. He handed it to Castiel, who took it with a grateful look. By the time Dean turned back to his brother, Sam was pinching the bridge of his nose like he was fighting off a headache, and a very human and naked Bruce Banner was peering out from behind a tree. 

"Hey. Uh, any chance you guys have some spare pants in your car?"


	3. Chapter 3

[ ](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/439/34173)

Dean sat behind the wheel of the Impala, squinting at the sun that was just peeking over the hills to the left of the highway. He was running on no sleep, no food, and no idea how life had gotten so fucking complicated in one day. He glanced up at the rear-view and took in the scene: an angel in a dirty trenchcoat was sharing the backseat with a middle-aged physicist who apparently had stood in front of the microwave too long. At least Cas's wings were under wraps again; Dean couldn't take much more crazy.

"So." Dean looked over at Sam, who was dozing in the passenger seat. Asshole. Dean slapped a hand down on his brother's knee, not feeling an ounce of guilt when Sam woke with a flailing yelp. "So," Dean repeated. "California. Malibu. Great. Awesome. And just how the hell are we supposed to get into this bazillionaire's mansion without an invite?"

"We'll think of something," Sam said, rubbing the heel of his hand into his eye. "Flash a badge, whatever it takes."

"That...might not work with Tony Stark," Bruce Banner piped up from the backseat. He shifted, looking uncomfortable and ridiculous in Dean's borrowed AC/DC tee shirt, frayed jeans, and reading glasses. He folded the map Sam had given him to study into a neat square. "He's got a—well—I read in Wired that he has an AI that functions as his household security system. It would scan your badges the moment you showed them."

"A robot bouncer? Seriously?" Dean rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. "Okay. So what's your genius plan, Banner?"

Bruce looked slightly bewildered at the question. "Well, I'll, I'll just have to explain. Stark will have to see us once I tell him—"

"Tell him what? That you picked up some space alien radio waves using a hairdryer in India? I'm sure that'll get us through the front door," Dean groused.

"Dean," Sam said, a note of warning and sympathy all wrapped up in one syllable. 

Dean waved his hand as if dismissing the problem. "Yeah, yeah. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it." He glared up at the rear-view again, shifting his gaze to Cas, who was staring out the window. "You're awful quiet there, Angels in the Outfield," Dean said. 

Cas's head jerked up. "Are you speaking to me?" he asked.

"Do you see anyone else in this car who's a target for Tony Danza jokes?" 

Cas stared at him via the mirror, his forehead scrunched in confusion. 

"You know, Angels in the Outfield? With the little kid who grew up to be Inception?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know what that is," Castiel said. 

"Seriously?" Sam asked. "Everyone saw Inception. Even we saw Inception, and Dean and I see real movies, like, once a year." 

Dean allowed himself a small smile, flicking his eyes up to meet Cas's. "You don't get out much, living on that mountain, do you?"

"Not really," Cas said, his gaze drifting back out the window. 

"I saw it in Beirut when it first came out," Bruce put in. He shrugged at Cas. "You're not missing a lot." Cas blinked, still uncomprehending. 

"Wait, you didn't like Inception?" Sam asked, twisting around in his seat to face Bruce. 

"There were a few holes in the premise," Bruce hedged. 

"Yeah, but as a _story_ —" 

"Hey hey hey, we are not having a nerd fight in the car, okay? Cut it out," Dean said. He rolled his shoulders to try and work out the kinks. "Dorks." 

They drove in silence for another five minutes before Sam turned around again and said, "So, Castiel, you were named after an angel. Does that mean you were born with your wings?"

Dean stared at his brother, wide-eyed in horror. "Dude," he hissed, "you cannot just ask someone about their wings!" He squinted into the sun again. "Also, what do you mean, named after an angel?" 

"Castiel. The angel of Thursday," he said to Dean before giving Cas an apologetic shrug. "I did a lot of research on angels. For a case. We thought—well, _I_ thought we were hunting one but it turned out— Uh. Not so much. So, you've had wings your whole life?" 

Dean took his eyes off the road to glance at Cas's face in the mirror. He may have chastised Sam for asking, but that didn't mean he wasn't interested in the answer. 

Castiel fidgeted with the loose belt of his trench coat, rolling it into a spiral in his lap. "No, my...mutation didn't manifest until I was a teenager."

"Puberty often kickstarts mutational expression," Banner offered. At Cas's silent look of reproach, Bruce ducked his head. "Sorry, you were saying?"

"I only meant," Cas turned to Sam once more, "that I took the name Castiel for myself once my wings appeared." 

"So it's not your real name?" Dean asked over his shoulder.

"No."

"No?" 

"No," Cas said more firmly. 

Dean waited for a beat, but when it became obvious that Castiel wasn't about to volunteer any more information, Dean asked, "So was your real name really dumb or just too human?"

"Dean!" Now Sam was the horrified one.

"What? It's a legitimate question. The guy sprouts wings and his first thought is to take a new callsign? And not just any angel name, oh no, some obscure one that only total Jesus freaks would recognize. If you're going to be an angel, why not Michael or Gabriel? You know, one of the headliners. Why—?" Dean glanced up at the mirror again and saw Castiel slumped into the Impala's black leather, staring out the window with hard eyes, his jaw clenched tight. Bruce shifted an inch closer, a hand raised as if to touch his arm before deciding against it. Dean looked over at Sam, who was glaring a hole into Dean. 

"God, Dean, use your head," Sam said in a quiet undertone. 

Oh. Dean turned his eyes back on the road, licking his lips. "Sorry, Cas," he said. "Man, I was just— Don't listen to me, okay? What the fuck do I know."

"No, you're right. I couldn't choose an archangel's name. That's not who I am," Cas said to the window. His breath made a circle on the glass. It sounded like he was done speaking, but then: "I was fifteen when the bones and feathers started jutting out of my back, and the pain was—" He looked out the window, though there was nothing to see. "I was no longer welcome at home after that."

Dean gripped the steering wheel with bloodless fingers, fighting the urge to twist around in his seat to face Cas. "Your folks kicked you out?" 

Castiel smiled at his reflection in the glass, a bitter thing. "I never knew my father. It was my mother who—" He swallowed. "She didn't let me take more than the clothes on my back. Including the name she'd given me." 

A long note of silence carried through the car.

"Oh," Dean said, because there wasn't much else to say.

"Damn," Bruce supplied. "I'm sorry." His hand curled into a fist on the leather.

Sam turned around in his seat again. "So, I mean, after we get Bruce where he needs to be, do you have any other family or friends that you can...?" He trailed off.

Castiel closed his eyes and rested his head against the window. "Wake me when we get to California," he said, wrapping his coat tighter around himself. 

Sam shot Dean a look, but Dean just shook his head. There was no pushing this, not now.  
He glanced up at the mirror and checked the backseat. Cas was out like a light, but Banner was wide awake, fingers drumming against his thighs. He looked smaller somehow in Dean's ratty clothes. Hard to believe he could turn into that thing.

"Hey, do me a favor, Banner," Dean said. "Don't hulk out in the car."

"Dean—" Sam gave an exasperated sigh. "There are some people you shouldn't piss off, okay? Bruce is one of them."

"No, it's okay. It's natural to worry about...the Other Guy," Bruce said. He leaned forward with his arms wrapped around his middle. "I'm fine. He's—uh—much easier to control after he's let loose. A little jab won't push me over the edge."

"Good," Dean said. He rolled his shoulders and pointedly did not look at Sam.

He drove in silence all the way through Nevada, sticking to the state roads to avoid patrol cars.

______________________

Dean woke up in the passenger seat to the sight of the ocean stretching blue and gray into the distance. He swiped sandy crud from his eyes and reached for the bottle of Pepsi in the cup-holder; his mouth tasted like ass. Sam was in the driver's seat, having taken over outside of Round Mountain to give Dean a break. He guided the Impala through another Pacific Coast Highway curve, glancing over at Dean.

"Morning."

"We almost there?" Dean rasped. 

Sam pointed to the space-age monstrosity rising from behind the bend. It looked like something from Disney's Tomorrowland. Dean scrunched his face in disbelief. 

"Not what I'd choose if I had more money than God, but that's just me." Dean opened the glove box, pulled out his favorite glock, and checked the clip, slamming it home once he made sure it was good to go. He turned to the passengers in the backseat. "You guys ready for this?"

Bruce's face took on a pinched look. "Is the gun really necessary?" 

"Yes." Dean turned to Cas, who was looking pretty rumpled from the long car ride, his hair all mussed and tie askew. "You good, Cas?"

"If I'm not, will that change anything?" Castiel asked. 

"Got a point." Dean tucked the gun in his waistband at the small of his back, arranging his overshirt to cover it. "Let's just hope this guy doesn't have SHIELD on speed-dial." 

"Well, he _is_ the spokesman for the Registration Act," Sam said. "Cas, be sure to keep your wings hidden, okay?"

Cas aimed a withering glare at the back of Sam's head. "Thank you for reminding me. I was planning on unfurling them as soon as we stepped onto Stark property." 

Dean chuckled under his breath, unfazed by Sam's pissy look. 

"I was just saying," Sam said quietly, turning off the highway and up the long, winding drive that led to the Stark mansion. 

The Impala rumbled up to a stainless steel gate that sat glinting in the sun. Sam leaned out the driver's side window and reached for the intercom button, but before he even touched it, the gates buzzed and slid open with alien smoothness. 

"Okay," Bruce said. "That was weird."

"Welcome to our world," Dean said. Sam shot him a questioning look, and Dean shrugged in return. "Gift horse, mouth. We wanted in; now we got it." 

Sam drove on with a bewildered shake of his head. They passed the gate and pulled up to the graceful arc of pavement that flowed by the flying saucer-shaped house. Just as Sam threw the car in park and cut the engine, the massive steel front doors of the house swept open. Dean stared at the open, yet somehow not welcoming, door and sighed. 

"Feeling more trappy by the second." He popped open his door. "You better be right about this guy, Banner."

Bruce didn't answer, just got out of the car slowly, cracking his neck to shake the road stiffness. For a moment Dean thought maybe Castiel was going to wait in the Impala, but even he eventually exited. 

"I've come this far," he said in answer to Dean's glance. "It's my planet too. I'd like to know what's happening to it."

Dean held up his hands defensively. "Fine by me." 

They approached the house together, Bruce being the first through the door. The foyer was all bright white melamine and chrome, more of a museum than an actual house. "Hello?" Bruce called into the echoing hallway. 

"Good afternoon," a cool British voice said from the ceiling. 

Dean reached for his gun. Sam held out a hand and shook his head once in warning.

"That the robot?" Dean asked, still looking upwards for the source of the voice.

"Mr. Stark will be with you momentarily," the voice said. 

"He was expecting us?" Bruce frowned. "I don't see how that's possible."

"He was expecting _you_ , Dr. Banner." 

Before Bruce could respond, a door slid open and Tony Stark strode into the hall, bare arms bathed in sweat, black tank top sticking to his chest, wiping grease from his knuckles with a red rag. "Jarvis," he said, "if you could dial back the ominous creepy-talk, that would be ideal."

"My apologies, Mr. Stark," Jarvis said without a hint of apology. 

Stark barely suppressed a sardonic eye-roll before approaching Bruce with a now-clean hand outstretched. "Dr. Banner, I presume. You caused quite a stir at the docks in Portland a few weeks back. I have to say, I'm a bigger fan of your research in the field of gamma radiation, but your getaways are good too." 

"You knew I was back in the States?" Bruce shook his hand instinctively, as if the option to ignore it wasn't on the table. 

Stark squinted at the ceiling in thought. "I knew what SHIELD knew. I like to keep tabs on the suits with the big guns. Comes in handy." He turned to the Winchesters and Castiel, his eyes going wide like he hadn't noticed them standing there before. "Oh. You brought backup singers. Adorable." Tony leaned forward, staring at Dean with single-minded intensity. He was shorter than Dean had expected, but the way he invaded Dean's space made him seem bigger. "The car outside. Yours?"

"Yeah," Dean said with a wary note in his voice. 

"It's impeccable."

"Thanks. I mean, I know." Dean dropped his gaze to the glowing circle of light that pulsed under Stark's thin black shirt. "So you're Iron Man, huh? That's, you know. Actually really cool."

"Yeah." Stark smiled, all shark teeth. "I know." 

Bruce gestured to them, one hand at his chin, the other pointing them out in turn. "This is Dean Winchester, his brother Sam, and their, uh, friend Castiel. I would've never made that getaway without them." 

Stark flicked his eyes over Sam and Castiel, who took a small step closer to Dean's side at Stark's lingering gaze. Sam was the one to step forward. "Look, we helped Banner because he has some information that could be important. We need to know now: do you plan on siccing SHIELD on us?" 

Tony examined his thumbnail and ran his rag under it once more. "You've put me in an awkward position. And not in the fun way. But!" He shot a grin at Bruce. "I'm more interested in listening to you talk than in watching the feds fail at capturing the Hulk again. So lay it on me, Banner. What've you got?"

Stark actually looped his arm across Bruce's shoulders and led him down the hall, Bruce's shocked face not deterring him one bit. 

"Well, it all started while I was scanning for low-level gamma signatures and cross-referencing them with—"

"—with upper atmosphere compound waves, yeah, I know. You don't have to put the training wheels on for me." Tony looked over his shoulder at the Winchesters and Castiel, still standing in the entryway. "Sit tight, boys. This won't take long." 

Dean watched Bruce and Tony disappear around the corner, still chattering excitedly about space junk and science waves or whatever. "Well, that went better than I expected," Dean said. 

Sam frowned, glancing up at the ceiling. "I don't know. I've got a bad feeling about this."

Dean poked at a swirly marble sculpture that sat on a nearby pedestal. "Why're you always so paranoid, Sammy? Gift horse, mouth, remember?"

"I agree with Sam," Castiel said in his low voice. "Something's not right."

"What do you want to do, just leave? This could be big. Like, alien invasion big." Dean spread his arms wide. "You want to run away from that?" 

Castiel rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes darting along the floor. "No. I suppose not." 

The squeak of Stark's sneakers sounded across the terrazzo floor, and the man himself rounded the corner with Bruce in tow. Now, though, his face was a mask of serious purpose. 

"So you believe me?" Bruce was saying to the back of Tony's head.

"You're a wanted man who just ran headlong into the government's waiting arms. Yeah, I believe you. I was always going to believe you," Stark muttered. He swept past the Winchesters and Castiel. "There's a StarkTech research facility a few minutes away. I have the largest private spectrometer array in the world there. If you're right about that signal, it'll find it. Jarvis, cancel that, erm, afternoon meeting, would you?"

"I'm afraid that's not possible at this juncture, sir," the robotic voice replied. 

Tony froze in the hallway, one hand on the doorknob. "Shit." He turned to stare at the assembled group. "Well. This is a one-man job. It'll go faster if I just—"

"No offense, Mr. Stark," Sam said, "but we're coming with you whether you want us there or not." Dean glanced at Sam, but Sam's answering look made it clear: they shouldn't let this guy out of their sight. And Dean couldn't argue with that. One phone call to the spooks and they were toast.

Dean rattled his car keys in his hand. "I'll drive."

Stark pulled a face. "Eh, I think I'll take mine if it's all the same to you." 

"Great. I'll ride with you," Sam said. Dean glared at him, but received only a stubborn look in return. 

A few minutes later, Dean was piling back into the Impala with Cas and Bruce, and Tony Stark was roaring out of his subterranean garage in a gold Lamborghini Gallardo. Dean's fingers gripped the steering wheel so tight, it squeaked in jealousy. Sam sat in the passenger seat of the Lambo, his legs folded nearly to his chest. 

"Lucky bastard," Dean grumbled. 

"He doesn't look like he's enjoying it, if that's any consolation," Cas said as he slipped into the front seat. 

"I know. That makes it worse." Dean put the Impala into gear and followed Stark's showboating fishtail back to the main road.


	4. Chapter 4

[ ](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/439/34373)

The StarkTech facility was located in a deserted stretch of sand dotted by huge satellite dishes and tiny scrub bushes. Dean rolled the Impala to a stop outside of one of the warehouses next to Tony Stark's car. "Where're all the workers?" he called as he shut the door of the Impala.

"Projects are housed here, not the researchers. It's my own little playground," Tony said. Dean noticed he had changed into clean clothes before their little field trip: new sneakers that probably cost more than Dean's entire collection of worldly possessions, a vintage-style Blue Oyster Cult tee that was actually vintage, and jeans with artful rips already in them. 

The inside of the warehouse was dark. Tony led them through a series of handprint-locked doors before finally arriving in a long metal corridor. "Jarvis, fans and lights. And some music, please," he said, and the machinery hummed to life. Metallica floated from some unseen corner of the building, a soothing beat on Dean's frayed nerves.

"Cool." Dean was willing to admit he was impressed. Even if the robot thing was a little weird. 

Stark shot him a smile. "Ain't it just?" His grin slipped somewhat. "You know what, though, you boys should probably take off. Grab a bite to eat. Bruce and I will need some time."

Sam crossed his arms. "I think we'll stay right here, if it's all the same to you."

"Sure. Okay. Right there, actually. No need for you to come to the lab. Unless you happen to have doctorates in particle physics. No? All right, then." 

Sam looked like he might protest, but Dean gave him a quick shake of his head. Stark loped down the long hallway, signalling for Bruce to follow with a waggle of his fingers. 

Bruce gave Sam and Dean a reassuring grin. "We're going to figure this out, I promise. He knows what he's doing." 

Castiel watched Stark walk away and said under his breath, "That's what concerns me, Doctor." His blue eyes wandered back to Bruce once more. "Good luck." 

Bruce left them in the corridor and followed Stark out of sight. Dean leaned back against the cool metal of the wall and tapped his foot to the chorus of Sandman. 

"I could get used to this," Dean said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. 

Sam snorted. "What, having the resources of a deranged millionaire at our disposal?"

"Nah, just letting someone else figure things out for a change. I still think hunters should be on the down-low. Otherwise we end up answering to the government spooks just like Stark does."

"Stark doesn't go along with the Registration movement because they're twisting his arm," Castiel said in a low voice. "He has the means. He could stand up to them if he wanted. But he doesn't care about anyone but himself, his profits, and his Iron Man." He glanced up at the ceiling. "I hope his computer did not hear that." 

Jarvis's voice slid over the strains of Metallica. "I will not hold it against you, sir." 

"Oh god," Dean laughed at the look on Castiel's face. "I could definitely get used to this." 

He only stopped laughing when the doors at either end of the hallway blew open and agents in black swarmed in, their scopes dotting his chest with red lights.

______________________

"—so we should start with the low end of the spectrum and work our way through it, just to be safe," Bruce said as they passed through the final secure door and into the huge round chamber of the lab. "If you want I can take the—" He stopped and stared at the room, jumping only slightly when the door shut behind him. "Uh, Stark?" His voice was suddenly small.

"'Tony,' please," Tony said, still standing behind him. "Jarvis, run Protocol Emerald like we discussed." 

"At once, sir," the disembodied voice answered. 

"Tony," Bruce tried again, "this is not a spectrometer." He took a step forward, running his hand along the wide metal cylinder that jutted from the center of the floor. 

"No," Tony agreed. "It's not."

"So what is this thing?" 

The lights flickered for a moment before dimming to the red emergency lighting in the corners and above the doors. Tony grabbed a nearby monitor and began tapping out code onto the transparent screen. "We've only got about seven minutes before SHIELD realizes I've cut the feed in here, and they'll come storming in like lemmings which worked _so_ well for them last time. I'm mapping the ventilation shafts so you can get the fuck out of here, okay?" 

"Wait, what?" Bruce's mouth worked open and closed. "SHIELD knows I'm here?"

"They knew the minute you showed up at my front gate. Part of our little Registration pact, they spy on me, I spy on them. But you've got to believe me," Tony looked up from his garbled screen to stare at Bruce wide-eyed, "I never thought you'd come out of hiding. I _swear_ I didn't."

"This is all for me." Bruce turned a slow circle, staring up at the sparkling machinery. "You built this to, what? Kill me? Because I'll tell you right now, that's not going to work." 

"Listen, we don't have time to—" 

"Don't lie to me!" Bruce shouted, slamming his fist against the silvery metal of the cylinder. The blow resounded hollowly through the lab. Bruce stared up the length of it, and Tony stayed stockstill at his station. 

"It's a vessel," Bruce whispered. He peered down the side of it, where it flared with a pair of fuel boosters. "A rocket. That's your plan. To remove the variable from the equation." He blinked up at the towering structure. "Shoot the Hulk into space." 

Stark pushed the screen out of his way, rubbing a hand across his chin. "Yeah," he said. "That was the plan." For once, he looked all of his forty-odd years. "After what happened in Connecticut with those kids— You weren't here, you can't understand how bad it got. There were riots, people beating suspected mutants and metas to death. And I kept saying, we're not all bad, we're not all dangerous, you've got the wrong idea. And then some asshole would play the footage from Harlem." Tony looked up, his eyes dark. "They told me they would start trusting me if I came up with a solution. And it was either this." He tipped his head toward the bay doors of the rocket. "Or watch all the capes get thrown into the Negative Zone." 

"I saw the news. They're throwing the capes into the Zone anyway."

"But I saved _some_ of them, I got some of them to register. The kids and the ones with mutations beta level and lower, they stayed safe." Tony shook his head. "I made a call. Someone had to."

"What you did? The bargain you made?" Bruce's eyes glinted a dark green. "That was wrong." His hand moved over the slick skin of the rocket, finding the release mechanism and opening the bay doors with a low whoosh. 

"I know." Tony swallowed. 

"But this?" Bruce gestured around the lab, taking a step backward into the rocket's bay. "This was the right thing to do."

"Bruce—" Tony stepped forward, fear dawning in his eyes. 

"You can't stop the Other Guy. I know. I tried." Bruce slid his glasses off his nose and folded them neatly in his hand. "I jumped from a bridge in Belgrade and he just swam to Kosovo. I tried rope and pills and—" Bruce pressed a fist to his lips, going silent for a long moment. "He's the strongest thing on the planet. And he could destroy it someday unless we stop him now." He stood straighter, his eyes remarkably clear. "Press the button, Tony. Start the countdown."

"No. No way. No can do." Tony crossed his arms over his chest. A flurry of muffled shouts and boots on metal flooring echoed from the outside the lab. 

Bruce's eyes were brown again, dark and sad. "This is the only way to make sure he doesn't hurt anyone else. You know I'm right." 

"No, you're so _wrong_ , Banner, so goddamn wrong. The Hulk isn't the strongest thing on earth." Tony sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. "It's the guy who's holding him back." 

_Open up!_ someone yelled on the other side of the door, banging a fist against the metal. 

Bruce hesitated between the bay doors, staring at Tony like he was seeing him for the first time. 

"Come on." Tony held a hand out. "Someone needs to decode those messages and figure out what the fuck is happening. So climb out of the stupid rocket and let's do this thing." 

Bruce looked at Tony, at Tony's hand, at the door that was being pounded by the agents just outside. He slipped his glasses back on and said, "How much data can we amass before they break through?"

______________________

"I said hands behind your head!" the SHIELD agent yelled in Dean's ear as she shoved him face-first against the wall, kicking his feet apart and pressing the barrel of her gun to the back of his neck.

"Okay, easy, easy, I'm doing it." Dean laced his fingers behind his head, glancing over at Castiel to his left, sensing Sam on his right. They were undergoing similar treatment with probably a dozen more agents crowded behind them. The Metallica cut off abruptly. 

"Stay still," the agent who was covering Cas said, waving a small device. Castiel tried to turn away, but the guy grabbed his jaw to keep him immobile while a blue light from the handheld device trickled down his face. Cas held Dean's gaze while it happened, his eyes wide and unreadable. 

"Facial recognition is a 70 percent match," the male agent announced. "James Novak, unregistered mutant. Threat level four."

A hot burn of anger raced through Dean's chest. "His name is _Cas_ , you son of a bitch!" 

"Put him in the truck," another agent said. Castiel thrashed against the agents' hold. 

"Leave him alone!" Dean struggled, but couldn't break away. His own face was scanned next.

"Got a match on this one, too," the agent said. "Dean Winchester, wanted in several states, presumed dead."

"Regenerative powers?" another agent asked. Dean stiffened; if SHIELD thought he was a mutant too, they were all kinds of screwed.

The blue light from the device flickered off. "Scan says he's human. Threat level zero." 

"Is that so?" Dean asked. He turned lightning quick, grabbing the rifle from one agent's hands and shooting another in the kneecap. 

Sam reacted first, cracking his elbow against the jaw of the agent behind him and catching the extra pistol Dean yanked from another's belt and tossed his way. Castiel snapped his head back to smash into his agent's face. The Winchesters knocked out the few agents who were left with the butts of their guns, and silence rang through the corridor.

"We are so, so screwed," Sam said as he surveyed the motionless black-clad bodies on the floor. 

"Calm down; your mascara will run." Dean bent to take the rest of the weapons off the unconscious SHIELD spooks, elbowing his way by Sam to reach for them. "We need to find Banner and Stark and get the hell out of here." 

"Stark? Dean, how do you think SHIELD knew to come here?" Sam said. He slammed a fresh clip home. "I told you he couldn't be trusted." 

A shout echoed down the hallway, and they turned just in time to see a fresh wave of agents heading their way. This time, though, there were no orders to stand down or surrender, just a barrage of gunshots. There was nowhere to take cover. Dean was in front of Sam and Cas, right in the line of fire. At least that was something, he thought as he shut his eyes. At least they might be—

He heard the impact of the bullets, but felt no pain.

And then. Silence.

Dean's eyes slid open, and he saw the bullets scattered on the ground in front of him in a perfect semi-circle, as if they'd all hit some invisible shield and had fallen to the floor. Dean had only begun to comprehend this when the bullets rose from the ground as if lifted on strings. They sat suspended in mid-air, glittering like impossible snowflakes. 

"What the hell?" Dean turned. Sam stood behind him, his arm outstretched, his teeth clenched tight. His fingers curled into a fist, and the bullets turned a lazy 180 in the air. 

"Sam," Castiel said quietly, his lips trembling. "Don't." 

Sam grimaced, his eyes taking on a dangerous sheen. Dean knew what he was about to do: send the bullets flying back into the faces of the agents. His brain couldn't understand how, though. This was just a dream, a nightmare. "Sammy?" he asked. 

Their eyes met then, Sam's hazel eyes bleeding out his anger, his hand faltering in the air until it released from its tight fist. The bullets went clattering to the floor. 

At the end of the hall, one agent broke from the stillness, lifting a hand to her earpiece. She spoke quickly. "Be advised. Omega-level mutant, I repeat, we have a possible omega-level—" 

Sam swept a hand through the air, and the agent's earpiece fell to the floor with a loud crack, shedding its shattered pieces as it went. Another gesture from Sam and the SHIELD force was thrown back into the wall where they stuck like bugs on flypaper. "Come on, we need to move!" Sam shouted, grabbing Dean's arm. 

Dean followed Sam and Cas as they ran down endless hallways. He couldn't feel his feet or hear anything but his own heartbeat. This is what shock does to you, he remembered dimly. There was shouting, farther and farther away, and then he felt Castiel drag him down to his knees behind an array of pipes and gaskets, hidden in a shadow of the machinery. They huddled together, Sam too, breathing shallowly while booted feet ran by. 

"You okay?" Sam's hands ran down Dean's arms, his chest, the back of his head. Checking for wounds, like Dean had taught him. "Were you hit? Dean, talk to me."

"No," Dean said in a strangled voice. His eyes lifted to Sam's, a slow climb to his brother's face. He shook his head back and forth. "No, I— Just stop, okay? Stop."

"Dean, you can't—"

"No, _you_ can't!" Dean jerked his arm away from Sam's grasp. "You can't sit there and pretend this is fine. You said you were back to normal, that after we closed the Gate it was all behind us. Fuck, Sam, I believed you!"

"No," Sam said in a low whisper. "You knew. Maybe we never talked about it, but you knew." He ducked his head until he caught Dean's eyes. "I was born with it, Dean. I've always been this way. I can do things, feel things, move things. You had to know." His voice turned desperate. "You had to."

"No, no, this is fucked up, I—" Dean shook his head even harder, his lip curling in a snarl. "I can't believe, a _mutant_ — Sam, why would you—?" 

"I am very uncomfortable," Castiel said. He hunched further into the shadow. 

"Cas, shut up," Dean said over his shoulder.

"Look, you can yell at me all you want as soon as we get out of here, okay?" Sam said. "But for now, let's concentrate on staying alive." 

"Small chance of that," a voice said from the other side of the pipes. A group of the armed men in SHIELD uniforms rounded the corner, their eyes black as pitch.

______________________

"What do you mean, the demons are at the door? Is that, like, a metaphor for something?" Tony asked as he jammed another spare repulsor gauntlet into an unmarked duffel bag. He didn't have a whole and functioning prototype of the Mark VII here at the facility, but he seemed determined not to leave any parts of it to fall into SHIELD hands.

"No. It means _there are demons at the door_ ," Bruce said. 

"Not possible. I know because demons aren't real. Aliens might be, though. Where are those files from New Mexico?" Tony scrolled wildly through a transparent menu screen. 

"The Winchesters told me they're demon hunters," Bruce said, tapping frantically at one of the thin screens. The security camera feed zoomed in on the agents' faces. One glanced up at the camera, his eyes completely dark. 

"And you believe them? Give me facts, please. Just facts."

"Fact: there are about twenty-five people outside the door with black eyes and superhuman strength." He watched as a person on the monitor slammed his fist against their door, leaving a huge rent in the steel. 

"Could be metas. Mutants. Black eyes don't mean anything. I once met a princess with white eyes. Man, she was something." Tony tossed another Stark Tech tablet loaded with data into the bag. "Like, omega-level something."

Jarvis piped in, "Dr. Banner is correct. The agents in the hall are not mutants; I've just completed a scan. And I picked up traces of sulfur, sir, for what it's worth."

Bruce wracked his memory for all the tidbits Sam had told him during their long walk down the mountain. "Salt and holy water slows them down; something to do with purity. But you can't kill them, you can only exorcise them, send them back to hell." 

"I have lasers. Are those pure enough for you?"

"Probably not?" Bruce knelt to examine a ventilation shaft grate that was fixed into the floor. He set to work opening it with the aid of a nearby multi-function caliper. "They'll be through any minute now. Do you have everything you need?" 

He pried the grate open, all the while feeling a frustrated tingle in the back of his head; the Other Guy would have had it open in less than two seconds. _Easy, boy._ He needed brains more than muscle at the moment, and the Hulk was just going to have to deal with that. Bruce wrenched the metal away at last, uncovering the gaping mouth of a ventilation duct. It was difficult to tell in the relative darkness, but it seemed to go straight down for yards. According to Tony's emergency backup plans of the facility, though, it would eventually lead to freedom. 

"I have maybe twenty-seven percent of what I need," Tony said, rummaging through another cabinet. "Jarvis, you'll have to ship some stuff to me, wherever the hell we end up. Can't go back to the mansion, they'll be waiting. I'll call from my—"

"Sir," the robotic voice said with surprising gentleness, "that would be inadvisable. I've been infected with a tracer program from SHIELD headquarters which I cannot override, and I fear any support I might offer will be used to track your movements."

Tony stopped rooting in the cabinet and looked up at the source of Jarvis' voice. "No, hey, you can't—"

"I'm sorry, sir. Once you are safely away, I will have no choice but to sever my connection to the servers and erase my more sensitive programming."

Bruce gaped. "You're shutting yourself down?" 

"Yes," Jarvis said. "Dr. Banner, I will be unable to monitor Mr. Stark's progress. Please see that he eats from time to time?" 

"I'll...try my best," Bruce said slowly. He glanced over at Tony. His face was like stone.

"Don't you dare," he said. "Jarvis, I order you to—"

"You gave me one order, sir, at the very beginning. And I believe I am still following it to the letter." Jarvis's voice was cool, calm. It drove a chill down Bruce's spine to hear. After a short pause, Jarvis added, "Please proceed with caution. And quickly."

"Come on." Bruce picked up the duffel Tony had filled and pushed it into the cradle of his arms. "We have to go." 

The bag was dropped down the shaft, and Tony followed, though not very willingly. "Don't trash your vocal pattern files, Jarvis!" he called, just his head and shoulders visible above the floor. "I'll be back, you know. I can rebuild whatever you need. This isn't forever." 

"So little is, sir," Jarvis said. "Be safe." 

"Tony." Bruce glanced at the door. Another unholy hit, and a large crack appeared across its middle. "It's got to be now." 

"I know, I know." Tony began the long climb down the emergency access ladder, and Bruce followed, dragging the grate back over his head as he left. 

"He'll be all right," Bruce said in the echoing blackness of the shaft as they descended. 

"Yeah, of course he will." It sounded certain, but Bruce knew it wasn't. They continued on in silence, though the sounds of the demons above crashing into the lab reverberated loudly through the shaft. They reached the bottom of the ladder just as the shape of a boot-print blocked the weak red light from the grate far above. Bruce grabbed the duffel and Tony's arm and led the way through the narrow shaft. They ducked beneath bundles of wires and pipes that made up the guts of the facility, crawling on hands and knees when the going got even tighter. 

"You okay?" Bruce called over his shoulder at one point. From what little of Tony Stark he'd seen, he knew there wasn't a lot of occasions for Tony to stop running his mouth. The extended quiet seemed strange. 

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Tony's hand brushed his ankle as they crab-walked around another bend. "Enclosed spaces, running for our lives, hellspawn on our trail—isn't this the sort of thing that He of the Green Complexion makes an appearance for?"

Bruce felt the dark, heavy brush of the Other in the back of his mind, as if he was saying _Listen to him. Let me out._ He bit his lip. "Explosions and gunfire in my face are one thing; danger in the room next door is another. I've got it under control. Or, I have. So far." 

"What's your secret? Ancient martial arts? Valium? Tantric hoo-ha?" 

Bruce smiled despite himself. "It's not that complicated, actually." For a moment, he considered telling Tony exactly what it was that kept the Other Guy in check. But a weak shaft of light appeared around the corner; that conversation could wait for some other time. "There's a hatch up ahead. If I remember the layout map correctly—"

"And I'm guessing you do, you big genius." 

"—then we should be close to the southwest exit. I say we take it." Bruce had to raise his voice as they crawled past a rumbling boiler, the roar of the machinery deafening in his ears. Tony indicated his agreement with a pat to Bruce's calf, and together they turned the hatch's wheel until it snapped open. 

And revealed the firefight they had just stumbled into. 

There were SHIELD agents everywhere, except their eyes were oil-black and their trigger-fingers weren't exactly conservative with their assault rifles. Dean Winchester was pinned down behind a stand of pipes, picking off each demon as they approached, a bullet dead-center in each forehead. But for every demon that dropped, another was there to take its place, and even the dead ones eventually stood up, groggy and bleeding, to advance again. Castiel had his wings out, flying as best he could in the tight hallway, whipping around the demons and kicking them with his booted feet. And Sam Winchester—

Sam was levitating—wobbly, but levitating—three feet off the ground, pushing a wave of demons away with a flick of his hand. 

"Oh," Bruce said. The pounding in his head got louder, a dull scream across his senses. 

"So, uh, mutant?" Tony pointed to Castiel as he swooped by. "Mutant?" He nodded at Sam. "The Zeppo, I'm guessing." A gesture to Dean. "Aaaaand demons." He looked at the black-eyed agents.

"Looks that way," Bruce mumbled. He pinched the bridge of his nose and scrambled out of the escape hatch. A bullet whizzed by his ear, hot enough to burn. "Tony?" His voice was already changing, getting deeper, less human.

"Let him out," Tony said. Not a hint of fear in his voice. "A Hulk on our side is better than whatever the fuck is going on now." He unzipped the duffel, rooting around in it before producing a repulsor gauntlet and strapping it to his left wrist. "I don't have a full suit, buddy, so you're going to need to clear the path for us, okay? Will he remember that? Clear a path?" 

Bruce tried to answer, but all he saw was green, and all he could do was roar.

______________________

Dean looked up at the sound of the Hulk's scream. He caught the tail end of Bruce's transformation, a huge green beast where the scrawny guy in the glasses had been. He didn't know whether this addition to the party was a good thing or just more superpowered menaces to worry about.

Tony Stark was there too, just one arm in armor and frying the hell out of some demons. That was a plus. It meant the guy wasn't a SHIELD puppet like Sam had said. 

"Banner tell you what we're dealing with?" Dean called over to him while reloading his glock. 

"He mentioned it." The repulsor in Stark's palm whirred before releasing another beam of light in a black-eye's face. "I'm still working on the whole 'hell is real' thing. I hope they have a nice room set aside for me."

Behind him, the Hulk smashed his way through several walls like they were made of tissue paper. Dean thought he saw a sliver of daylight. He turned his head to check, a mistake. A wave of unseen power took hold of his limbs and shoved him flat against the wall. Dean struggled to break free even as his feet left the ground. The offending demon smiled, twisting her hand until the gun fell from Dean's numb fingers. 

"Funny, isn't it?" she said. "How your brother's got all the pushy-shovey powers we do?" 

"He ain't a demon," Dean gritted out. 

"Doesn't matter." She slid her SHIELD service weapon from the holster that was strapped to her thigh. "We're the ones with the badges." She shoved the barrel of the gun under his chin. 

"Dean!" Sam looked up from the demon he'd been staring down—some kind of psychic spell, Dean guessed—and made a grab through the air. The demon was jerked backward, hurtling through a hole in the wall the Hulk had torn, the gun falling from her hand. Dean's feet dropped back to the floor. 

Dean met Sam's eyes across the hallway. For a moment he almost mouthed "thanks," but then he saw how Sam was floating above the floor. His face shuttered. He imagined Sam practicing his mutant powers in secret, learning to float and move things with his mind, all behind Dean's back for however many years. It hurt to know how much Sam had kept from him. It hurt like nothing else could. 

"Hey!" Stark shouted through the surrounding chaos, cutting through Dean's thoughts. "Tiny's got the right idea. I say we follow him." He pointed with his one bare hand.

Dean saw the green flash of the Hulk's retreating form through a screen of smoke; someone must have busted a pipe. Sam was already falling back, putting the whammy on demons as he went. Stark was close behind. That just left—

"Cas!" Dean spun around, blinking the smoke from his watering eyes. He'd last seen Castiel holding his own against a demon at the end of the hallway. Where the hell was he? He nearly tripped over a tan lump: Castiel's abandoned coat and harness. Dean grabbed them and bundled them under his arm. 

He should have expected the click of a safety being released. He turned too late: the injured demon on the ground had already fired. 

A mass of white feathers obscured Dean's vision and before he knew it, Castiel was crumpled on the ground in front of him, shirtless and bloodied. The demon responsible got a bullet in its brain. Wouldn't keep it down forever, Dean knew, but he needed to buy them some time. 

"Cas, what the hell!" Dean knelt beside him, turning him slowly with a hand on his shoulder. Cas was curled into a ball, his hands pressed against the wound in his stomach. Blood gushed sluggishly over his fingers. 

"H-he was aiming for your heart," Cas said, his voice a pained scrape. 

Dean bit off an angry retort—of course he was, this was a goddamn war—and instead pressed the balled-up trench coat over Cas's abdomen. A rusty bloodstain spread over the tan fabric. "Well, hurry up with the mutant healing mojo," Dean said. 

Castiel's big blue eyes stared up at him. "I can't heal myself," he said with strange calm. "My blood can only heal others." 

"Oh, that's just great." Dean pressed the coat tighter to Cas's stomach, his eyes darting around the dark, smoky hallway in case more demons were lurking. "That is the stupidest— Why didn't you just let me take the bullet, huh? Then you could have healed me."

A frown creased Cas's features. His words slurred together. "I—I can close wounds, but...bring you back from the dead? Can't...can't do that."

Dean scanned the hall one more time, desperate for a glimpse of Stark or Banner or, shit, even Sam would be welcome now. Castiel's eyelids fluttered closed. "Hey hey hey, no beauty sleep." Dean slapped his face lightly, bringing the blue eyes back. "We've got to move. Stay with me."

He shoved his glock into his waistband and slid his arms under Cas's knees and neck. The guy was shorter than Dean, but he wasn't exactly a lightweight, and his wings added an awkward bulk and kept tangling between Dean's legs as he walked. Dean carried him through the thick smoke, picking a direction that he thought might lead to the others, but he was as good as blind. 

The red glow of an exit sign finally appeared up ahead, and Dean pushed through a set of doors to stand blinking in the afternoon sunlight. They were between two warehouses with no useful cover, and the Impala was nowhere in sight. Dean cursed and set Cas down as gently as he could on the cement. The coat Cas was clutching over his stomach was now slick with blood, but Cas had remained awake as ordered, his eyes wide, face pale. 

"What now?" he asked. 

A few options ran through Dean's head, some of which included leaving Castiel there. That would've been the smart thing to do. But it wasn't what Dean did. 

He patted through his pockets and gave Cas a grin that was supposed to be reassuring. "Trust me," he said, presenting the permanent marker that had been in his back pocket.

______________________

Tony followed the Hulk through a newly made Hulk-shaped hole in the wall, blinking as he stepped into the sunshine. They were in the narrow strip between warehouses, their cars parked nearby. Not the best place to stay, strategically.

"Any sign of your brother and the guy with the wings?" he called back to Sam. 

Sam stepped through the opening and onto the pavement, shaking his head. "I lost them. I'll go back." 

"Wait, maybe we should—" He saw a hint of green out of the corner of his eye. "No, Hulk! Don't smash that! Come on, that's brand new." 

But the Hulk was on a roll, and he was (gleefully, Tony was sure) stomping on the gold Lambo and tearing off its tires like they were butterfly wings. He then flicked the tires at some demons that were trying to scramble out of the warehouse, so that was something. 

Tony aimed his palm repulsor at the advancing throng of black-eyes. "I really liked that car," he said. 

"We'll give you a ride," Sam said with no sympathy at all. "Let's take these things out so we can get back to Dean."

______________________

Dean and Castiel sat in a shadow on the opposite side of the warehouse, Cas's stained coat spread out underneath them. Dean held Cas close, his own plaid overshirt now pressed to his gunshot wound. Castiel was weak from blood loss, so Dean had taken over the first aid. He had hoped that Stark or somebody would have found them by now, but it looked like a demon had found them first.

He was just another black-eyed bastard who wandered out of the same door they had, as surprised to see them as they were. Dean was prepared to stand his ground. But before he even got off the first shot, a blade stuck through the demon's throat with a crackle of electricity that reminded Dean of the Colt. The demon fell to the ground, dead, and behind him stood another black-eyed demon with a wicked-looking knife in her hand. 

"Hello, Winchester," she said as she slipped through the doorway. She was small and blonde, her hair pulled into a bun. She wore a SHIELD uniform like the others. 

Dean shifted in front of Cas, blocking him as best he could. He trained his gun on the demon. "Don't try me," he warned her. 

She held her hands up in a peaceful gesture, though she still held the demon-slaying knife. "I'm not here to kill you, Dean," she said. "I'm here to make you a deal." 

Dean frowned. "What?" 

"The name is Ruby." The blonde smiled, all ice. "And if you don't want to watch your little feather-friend bleed out, which he will in about ten minutes, I can help. For a price." 

"Just my soul, you mean?" Dean said. Behind him, Castiel's weak fingers scrabbled at his ankle. Dean ignored him. "Kind of a weird time to be bringing in new business. You already have your hands full possessing government agents, don't you?" 

"Consider it your lucky break." Ruby smiled. 

"Well, _Ruby_ ," Dean worked his mouth around the name, "I'm not really in the mood to stick my neck out for some mutant I just met the other day." He injected as much scathing heat as he could into the words. Even if they weren't entirely true, Ruby didn't need to know it. Sure, the guy had saved Dean's life—twice—but selling your soul was something you only did for family. He glanced back at Cas, still bleeding all over his trench coat. Castiel wasn't family, but he was sure as hell something more than a stranger.

Ruby seemed to grow impatient with Dean's silence. "Fine. Bury him yourself. See what I care." She turned to leave, stuffing her knife into a sheath strapped to her belt. 

Dean called out to her: "Hey, wait!" 

Ruby turned. 

"You'll give me ten years, right? Like all the other crossroad deals?" Dean took a half-step back, treading on the spread coat. He could hear the sound of Castiel's wings fluttering weakly against the pavement. 

"One year, in your case. Supply and demand; you need to pay extra," Ruby said.

"Dean...don't," Castiel croaked. 

Dean didn't pay him any attention. He licked at his dry lips. "You still seal the deal with a kiss?" 

Ruby cocked her head. "This isn't my usual gig. Sorry, but you'll have to sign this instead." She snapped her fingers and a long scroll of paper appeared in her hand, dotted line and all. "Got to say, Winchester, from what I heard about you, I expected you to flip-flop on this a little more." She smirked down at Castiel. "This one must be something else, huh?" 

"Let's just get this over with." Dean stuck his gun in his waistband. Ruby stepped forward into his space, her boots treading on the stained fabric of Castiel's coat as she held the contract out to Dean. Another snap of her fingers and a pen appeared in a puff of sulfur.

Just as Ruby held out the pen, Dean grabbed both her knife from its sheath and Castiel by the arm and, in one swift movement, dragged him off the bloodied trench coat. 

"Hey, give that—" Ruby strode forward to the edge of the coat, then stopped abruptly. She glared down at the fabric beneath her feet. 

"Got you." Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out the felt-tip marker, waggling it between two fingers. Ruby snarled, then knelt to flip back a sleeve of the coat, revealing the devil's trap worked in black marker on the cement below. "Looks like we don't have a deal," Dean said.

"You stupid fuck!" Ruby screamed. "You're dead, you know that? I was giving you a chance to live a little longer, but Crowley won't be making any deals with you! He's going to cut your throats—you and your brother—and this mutie of yours will be long dead!" 

"Crowley? Who—?" 

The door burst open again—what Dean would have given for a dumpster or _something_ to block that fucking thing—and a handful of demons poured out, eyeing them hungrily. 

Ruby threw Dean a look that clearly said _I told you so, asshole_. Castiel struggled to sit up against the side of the warehouse, his wings flapping against the cement. Dean glanced back at him; he was fading fast, and Dean didn't know how long he could hold off these goons. He had a knife that could kill demons, but they had guns that could kill him faster. 

Fuck it, Dean thought. He held the knife in one hand and his glock in the other. If he was going down, he'd go down swinging. 

"Excuse me," a stranger's voice called from the doorway. "Put the guns down, please." 

All eyes were drawn to the figure standing there with some kind of space-age rocket launcher in his hands. The guy was a SHIELD agent, one of the suits, middle-aged and short. And human, if his eyes were anything to go by. 

One of the demons raised his gun, hissing. The suit flipped the switch on his own weapon, which crackled and glowed with an ominous whine before blasting the demon away with a beam of light. 

"Oh," he said. "So that's what it does." 

The other demons tried to run, but the suit picked them off with a kind of calm that Dean had only seen in other hunters. Not wanting the guy to have all the fun, Dean slashed the throat of one of the runners and watched him crumple to the ground with a crackle of energy. Then Dean and the suit stood facing each other, weapons still out, with Ruby in her trap and Castiel holding his breath on the sidelines.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean asked, not dropping his gun.

"He...the woods," Castiel said. He raised a shaking hand and pointed to the man. "The helicopter. I saved him."

"Just returning the favor." The suit lowered his beam cannon-thing and nodded to Castiel. "Agent Coulson of SHIELD. Nice to meet you," he said mildly.

______________________

"I see a problem here," Tony said, looking from the Impala to the Hulk, who was smashing an electrified fence in the distance. "We're going to need a bigger car."

Sam pulled a face that was more of a facial shrug than anything. "One second." He lifted a hand towards another demon as it crawled from beneath a twisted girder. Its black eyes glowed with fire for a moment before the body collapsed to the ground. 

"That kills them?" Tony dumped his duffel bag on the ground next to the car. They were finally ready to make their escape and Dean Winchester was nowhere to be found, naturally. Tony doubted Sam would consider leaving without him. 

"It exorcises them. Saves the human host if they haven't already been mortally wounded," Sam said. 

Another demon appeared out of the smoking wreckage of the warehouse. The human vessel was clearly done for, its limbs hanging on by bare threads of tendons and bone. It gave a primal scream and spilled thick black smoke out of its mouth. Tony watched with wide eyes as the smoke swirled past Sam and headed straight for him. 

"Stark, get out of here! It'll possess you!" Sam shouted. 

"Me?" Tony pointed to his own chest, his eyes fixed on the crackling black cloud. "Oh no, you don't want to possess me. I've got this heart condition, it's—" He got off one repulsor shot, but it went right through without any discernible effect. The smoke engulfed him, forcing its way past his lips, into his nose, down his throat. It tasted like something charred and dead. 

"Get out of him." Sam's voice was deep and far away. Tony could see him through his watering eyes. Sam grabbed at the air like a fisherman casting a net, and the smoke thrashed like a caught trout. Tony gagged as the demon smoke was forcibly pulled out of his throat. When the last tendril was yanked free, he fell to the pavement, coughing and gasping for breath. 

The smoke curled into a tight ball in mid-air as Sam brought his hands closer together, like he was crushing it. The thing screamed. "Go back to Hell," Sam told it, and sent it down below into a circle of fire.

"Why?" Tony wheezed. "Why did it—?"

"I told you, it needs a host. That's how they operate," Sam said. He strode to the Impala and popped the trunk. "Here, put this on." He tossed Tony some kind of iron charm hanging on a leather thong. Tony looped it over his head despite the fact that hippy chic was not his style. It sat heavily on his chest, banging against the casing of the arc reactor beneath his shirt.

"No, I mean why did it go after me?" Tony said, his voice finally under control. "The Hulk is resistant to everything, so that explains why the demon avoided him. But it flew right past you without even a backward glance. And let's face it, you're a bigger threat than some guy with one semi-working repulsor." He wagged his beat-up armored hand in the air. "So why wouldn't it take you out first?" 

Sam looked honestly concerned at that. "I—I don't know. Dean and I have these tattoos that are supposed to prevent possession. Maybe it—" 

"Why?" Tony cut in. 

"Why the tattoos?" Sam blinked. "Dean got possessed once. After that, we decided no more chances." 

Tony's mind whirred in thought. In the distance, he watched the Hulk smash his way through the facility's cooling system. That really hurt. He'd just had that thing installed. Some part of his brain, the side that was still working on the demon problem, clicked. 

"I'm human," he said. "Dean's human. That's got to be it." 

Sam's brow furrowed, his eyebrows working overtime. "You think they can't possess mutants?" 

Tony cursed inwardly. It was the same tactic he had planned for the Hulk: take the pieces off the board. "It would explain the rising popularity of anti-mutant legislation these last few months; if demons can possess SHIELD operatives, what's stopping them from possessing members of Congress?" He quirked an eyebrow at Sam. 

Sam closed the trunk and leaned against it like his knees has just given out. "Oh my god." He blinked. "I'm going to be sick."

Tony examined the power indicator on his gauntlet, shaking it to try and get another bar or two out of it. "Before you spew, can we figure out how to shoehorn Sweetpea here into the backseat?" he asked, nodding at the Hulk, who had returned to the carcass of the Lamborghini and was ripping the paneling into bite-sized chunks. 

Sam glared down at Tony, his eyes taking on an ugly cast. "Like you care what happens to Bruce. I felt your guilt back at the mansion. You brought him here to trap him, didn't you?" 

"That was what I was supposed to do. Not what I actually did," Tony pointed out. Empath on top of telekinetic; Tony filed that away under Winchester, Sam: powers. He struggled to his feet with one hand on the warm black body of the Impala for balance.

"How do I know you won't turn on us again?" Sam asked. 

Tony shrugged. "You're the one with the mind powers," he said. He tapped the side of his head with his one set of bare knuckles. "Take a look around if you don't believe me."

Sam's eyes narrowed and he stepped uncomfortably close to Tony, the blue glow of the arc reactor casting strange shadows between them. The kid was so tall Tony had to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. He just hoped Sam could feel the truth in his head: that it hadn't been worth it. It was his father's weapons manufacturing all over again, except he should have known better this time. He swallowed, his eyes darting to the ground. He should have _been_ better. 

"Look at me," Sam demanded, and Tony did.

Images flashed through his head, pulled from him with pliers, of Afghanistan and the suit, and Bruce, and his father always in the back of his mind, and the hole in his chest, and Jarvis dead in his server, and MIT, and how Pepper and Rhodey had looked at him after he made that speech about Registration, and every stupid mistake Tony had made that had caused him to end up here. Alone. 

Tony didn't look away from those big hazel eyes, even when the rage melted out of them. Even when the tears started. Sam cried like a kid, red-faced and messy. He pulled back from Tony, wiping at his face with the backs of his hands. 

"Sorry," he said, his voice cracking.

"S'okay." Tony cleared his throat, blinking back the moisture in his own eyes. "Happens." Footsteps echoed from the hole in the warehouse behind them. Tony and Sam spun in unison, hands raised in preparation to attack. But it wasn't demons: it was Dean Winchester carrying a bleeding Castiel with the help of—

"Coulson?" Tony blurted out. "What are you doing here? And how come your people are evil all of a sudden?" 

"I'd like to know that as much as you do," Agent Coulson said. He hobbled forward, supporting Castiel by one arm while Dean supported the other. "It started when Director Fury went MIA. Too many new agents, too many personality changes in existing ones. Suddenly, neutralizing the Hulk was top priority. Things weren't adding up, so I decided to tag along on this mission without Acting-Commander Hill's leave. Good thing." 

"Already did the holy water test," Dean said. "Guy's clean."

"And refreshed," Coulson added. He shrugged his weapon's strap off his shoulder, dropping the huge cannon at Tony's feet. "Found this in your lab. Slows them down, at least."

"Who told you it was okay to take my stuff?" Tony bristled. 

"Guys," Dean said, drawing their attention back to him. "Man down? Losing blood? Any of this registering on your To Do list?" He laid Castiel on the ground beside the Impala, pillowing his head in his hands. 

Tony lifted the bundle of fabric on Castiel's stomach to survey the damage. "We need a doctor."

"We have one," Sam said. He turned toward where the Hulk stood breathing like a freight train, having already smashed everything around him. Sam walked towards him, his eyes slipping closed in concentration. 

Tony called out, "Maybe not the best idea! Maybe a very bad idea!" But Sam didn't pay him any heed. 

"Let him go," Dean said. His face was dark. "Think he pulled this trick back in the woods."

Tony noticed he didn't sound too pleased about that. He filed that away under Winchester, Dean: issues, then turned to watch Sam approach the Hulk. Sam reached out, and the Hulk roared and beat his chest with one fist like an ape. But then Sam seemed to say something to him that calmed him down. The Hulk nodded, snorting, and fell on all fours. Tony watched the change with undisguised interest: bones shrinking and cracking, flesh fading from green to tan, the Hulk becoming Bruce Banner again. 

"Our reports said the Hulk is immune to psychic control," Coulson said, a dubious note in his voice. Tony had read the same report when he'd been brought in to solve the Hulk problem. So what was different here? He thought about the weird staring contest he and Sam had just finished, and how he'd _felt_ so much in the span of just a few seconds. Like his feelings had been condensed into a stone and he'd been forced to swallow it.

"Empathy," he said under his breath. 

"Excuse me?" Coulson asked.

"Empathic abilities. Different from psychic abilities. He can access emotions, not thoughts. The kid can feel Bruce under all that green, give him some breadcrumbs to find his way back. Must be how he whammies demons too." Tony whistled in appreciation. "Hell of a skill." He spared a glance at Dean, who was too busy checking Castiel's pulse to weigh in. 

He filed that under Winchester, Dean: priorities. 

Bruce looked pale and shaky as Sam led him over to Castiel. He was dressed only in the tattered remnants of his trousers, his eyes fixated on the wreckage and bodies around them. 

"Is everyone—?" 

"You only hurt the demons," Tony said quickly. He registered Sam's glare as a silent _and their human hosts_ , but Bruce's guilt could wait. "Cas got shot. You need to help him."

A screech echoed from the ruins of the warehouse and streams of lightning-laced black smoke poured out along with dozens of fresh black-eyes. Coulson reached for his StarkTech special. 

"Go," he said. "I'll cover you."

"Coulson, don't be ridiculous. You can sit on Banner's lap. Dean, keys!" Dean lobbed them in his direction and Tony grabbed them out of the air. Said a lot that the kid was willing to let Tony, a near stranger, drive his prized possession. 

"I can't come with you." Coulson flipped a switch on his cannon. "I've got a rogue demon trapped, and someone's got to interrogate her if we want to know their plan." 

Tony blinked, impressed. "You got more done today than I did, Agent. Be sure to ask her about the Registration Act. Pretty sure mutants can't be possessed." 

Coulson nodded. "Explains a lot. We don't know how deep this goes. I assume you're headed off the grid. I'll contact you as soon as I have something."

The demons were closing in. Tony's hands clenched into fists. "And how are you going to contact me if we're off the grid?" he asked.

Coulson shot him a look that clearly said, _Oh please_. Tony sighed and yanked the anti-possession charm from his neck. "Take this. It goes with your eyes. And keeps the demons away." He handed it over. "Dean tell you about the salt and stuff?"

"I've been briefed. Now go." 

Coulson provided covering fire while Dean and Bruce hoisted Castiel into the backseat. The wings were problematic, but they shoved them in as best they could before piling in after him. Sam gave the demons one last taste of telekinetic firepower before jumping into the passenger seat. Tony tossed his bag in the trunk and slid behind the wheel. 

"Try not to blow up all of my stuff!" he shouted out the window. Coulson gave him an abbreviated salute as he peeled out. 

"Watch it!" Dean shouted from the backseat. "If you so much as scratch the paint job, Stark—"

"I'll buy you a new one," Tony said, taking a turn way too fast. 

"There _isn't_ a new one!" 

Castiel gave a muffled shout as the car flew over a speed bump outside the facility's main gate. Tony grimaced at the rearview mirror. "Sorry."

Dean swore and held Castiel's head in his lap while Bruce prodded at his wound. Sam fumbled in the glove box, then produced a first aid kit. 

"Should be some forceps in there," Sam said as he passed the kit back to Bruce. 

Tony could see Dean's eyes widen in the rearview. "You're going to take the bullet out now?" Dean asked. The car bumped along the highway, jostling everyone from side to side and making Castiel groan in pain. Tony could see his point. 

"It's not ideal," Bruce admitted, "but we don't have a choice. Give him something to bite down on." 

"Oh god," Tony said to himself, his hands tightening on the wheel. "This is going to be emotionally scarring, isn't it?"

He watched as Dean unbuckled the leather cuff he wore on his wrist and placed it at Castiel's lips. "Come on, Cas," he said in a soft voice. "It'll be over soon." Castiel opened his mouth and accepted the bit of leather between his teeth, his eyes glazed in pain. 

"Bruce, aren't you a doctor of physics?" Tony couldn't help but ask. 

Bruce glared at him via the rearview mirror. "Hold him still," he said to Dean, pointedly ignoring Tony. 

Castiel's muffled screams were one of the most horrifying things Tony had ever heard, and that was saying a lot. They didn't last very long, though. A small mercy. The howls of pain tapered off into silence. Tony checked the mirror; Cas's eyes were shut, his features slack. "He okay?"

"Passed out," Bruce said, holding the bullet aloft between the ends of the forceps. "Now for the stitches." 

Dean cradled Castiel's head and folded his wings to lie more neatly in the backseat. Tony returned his attention to the road, which stretched out before them like a black question. 

"So. Where to?" he asked, trying for levity and failing. 

"Head east," Sam said. 

"Want to be more specific? We're kind of being chased down by creatures of biblical proportions who appear to have infiltrated the government at various levels," Tony said. "Is there someplace _east_ of here where they can't find us?"

"Yes," Sam said. "East. To Missouri."

"Missouri?" Tony quirked an eyebrow. "What's in Missouri?" 

Dean's head lifted at that, his eyes round. "Not the state," he said. "Head for Kansas. Don't stop except for gas. Just keeping driving." 

"Fine, okay, let's just be super vague and irritating about it, then," Tony said, and adjusted the mirrors to settle in for a long drive.

______________________

Missouri Moseley opened her front door to reveal the Winchester brothers, billionaire superhero Tony Stark, a man who was, on his bad days, the most destructive force on the planet, and a slip of a thing in a leather jacket who looked like he was going to fall over at any moment.

Missouri sighed. "I saw this coming, and I still can't believe it." She opened the door wider. "You all better get in here before my neighbors see."


	5. Chapter 5

[ ](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/439/34719)

Sam sat in the fenced-in backyard behind Missouri's modest house, shaded by a sprawling oak tree. Three acorns danced in the air above his palm, swirling like electrons in an atom. Sam tried to concentrate, but his mind drifted back to Dean and how he had refused to share a bedroom with Sam last night. "Forget it," Dean had said. "I can't even look at you, Sammy." He'd holed up in the attic, which was serving as Castiel's recovery room. Sam hadn't seen Cas or Dean all day.

One acorn smacked into another and all three went pinging to the ground. Sam sighed. 

"Feeling down?" Sam squinted up at Missouri standing over him with a bemused smile playing on her lips. 

Sam worried a long blade of grass between his fingertips. "Guess you know about what happened. With me and my powers and...Dean."

"Don't have to be a mind-reader, honey." Missouri dragged a plastic Adirondack chair from the concrete patio slab and placed it in the shade beside Sam. "Bruce—nice man—filled me in on the mess you boys got into on the west coast. You couldn't just stick to hunting poltergeists, could you?" She slid into the chair, her elbows resting on her knees, her hands cupping her chin.

Sam smiled, brief and apologetic, remembering how he and Dean had worked that case with Missouri. Dean had pitched a fit about working alongside a mutant psychic, despite the vague notes in dad's journal that said Missouri could be trusted. Had it only been a year ago? Dad had still been alive, and demons hadn't even been on Sam's radar. 

"Everything's gotten worse since we last saw you." An ache filled Sam's chest as he thought of how his mother's ghost had looked in her white dress. "We killed the demon that murdered mom—Dean did, I mean." Sam didn't want to take credit for Dean's kill; the bullet had been dead-center in Azazel's forehead, no help from Sam. "But it didn't stop anything. We can't seem to get away from it, no matter what we do. The demons are still coming." He tossed the blade of grass away, having worried it into knots. 

Missouri hummed in agreement. "That why you came back here? To run away from the hard stuff?" she asked in her soft, high voice. "It doesn't work like that, you know."

"I know." Sam had tried that tactic with Stanford, and look how that had panned out. He looked up at Missouri. "I came here because I need to get stronger. I've been hiding these powers for—for years, my whole life. But we're going to need them for whatever's coming." He swallowed. "You have to help me. You're the only psychic I know of who isn't locked up." 

Missouri chuckled under her breath. "I'm just a mind-reader, Sam. I can only sense aural patterns and pick up on loud thoughts. On a good day I dabble in a little precog. I'm not your Yoda; I don't have your abilities."

"But there's got to be some overlap, right?" Sam asked. "You must have learned how to turn it off when you want and, and, and patience, and control—"

Missouri sighed. "How am I supposed to teach you that? You're a grown man, Sammy; you haven't learned how to take a few deep breaths when stuff is bothering you?" She threw her hands in the air. "I don't know what to tell you. You start hearing things in your head that you don't want to hear, block it out like you would anything. Hum to yourself. Think about something else. Be disciplined, for Pete's sake!" 

"I'm trying, I swear," Sam said. "But it's not working." He bit his lip and thought of his sleepless night on Missouri's couch, staring at the ceiling, practically feeling Dean's anger dripping down from the attic. Fights were inevitable when you lived and worked together as closely as they did, but Sam could always count on those arguments to pass, and for that fierce, underlying love his brother had for him to always be there in full force. This was different. This time, there was no end to the misery flowing out of Dean's heart. Sam could feel it with every breath he took, a heavy, black wave coming from the house. 

Sam felt hot tears well up in his eyes. "He hates me," he told Missouri. 

"Aw, Sammy." She reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind Sam's ear. "You know it's not _you_ he hates."

Sam looked up with wide eyes. "You know about—?" 

Missouri shrugged. "I don't go digging, but the loud thoughts always find me. And you know Dean: he talks loud, sings loud, and by God, does he think louder than any man I ever met. I've connected to poltergeists who were quieter in their heads." 

Sam almost smiled at that because it was so true. 

"What I'm saying is, you're Dean's family," Missouri said in her soft, sweet voice, "the only family he's got left. Now, you and I know what his tantrum is really about; he'll get over it, he's got to. Family's more important to that boy than air."

Sam nodded, dragging a hand across his face. "Yeah, you're right. Just got to give it time."

"Good. While we wait, let's get your brainpan in shape." She nodded at the acorns sitting on the grass. "You'll need to do a heck of a lot more than twirl those things around. But I warn you, if I have to be your Yoda, you better listen to me." 

"Yes ma'am," Sam said, and sat up straighter.

______________________

The attic was stuffy and hot with summertime air, but it was the only place in Missouri's house where Castiel could extend his wings without knocking over a framed photograph or potted plant. Dean had fixed him a little nest of sleeping bags and blankets on the floor with two box fans angled to deliver a passable breeze. Last night had been torture, Cas tossing fitfully, Dean wide awake no more than an arm's length away with Ruby's knife tucked under his pillow. Now Cas was sprawled out on his back with new bandages wrapped around his torso. He was stripped down to his navy boxers in deference to the heat, his skin flushed and dotted with sweat.

Dean looked away from the picture Cas presented and finished his rattling climb up the attic ladder, careful not to spill the iced tea he was carrying in a stout juice glass. "Banner said you need fluids," he said, setting the glass on the floorboards. Cas reached for it, grunting with the effort it took to sit up. 

"I hate sleeping on my back," he said. "My wings get needles and pins when I lay on them."

"Hey, watch the stitches." Dean dropped to one knee beside Cas and helped him up carefully. "You don't want to undo all our hard work." He brought the rim of the glass to Cas's lips. 

Cas took a long gulp of the iced tea, a stripe of condensation snaking from the glass over his fingers as he drank. When he was done, he sighed in contentment and said, "Thank Bruce for me when you see him. I'm sure I didn't have the presence of mind to do so yesterday." 

Dean tried not to think about what Cas had looked like in the Impala: slipping in and out of consciousness, pale and exhausted, blood caked on his skin and the leather upholstery and Dean's hands. 

"Yeah, I'll let him know," Dean managed to say. 

"Does Bruce know what we're up against yet? Has Stark gotten word from Coulson?" Cas asked.

Dean shrugged. "Nothing solid yet. Don't worry about that stuff, okay? Just rest up."

"Yes, I'll need to be ready for the fight to come." Cas took another long sip. 

"You, uh, plan on jumping back into the fray?" Dean frowned. 

"Of course." Those big blue eyes again. "Dean, people are dying. I can't hide in Mrs. Moseley's attic forever."

"Yeah. Yeah, 'course." 

He kept his hand on Cas's shoulder as he drank some more, rubbing small circles into the clammy skin just to do something that felt useful. After a couple of days cooped up in a backseat together, it didn't feel as weird as it should have to touch the guy. And Dean knew from long hours trying to get Cas comfortable in the Impala that a quick shoulder-rub sometimes did the trick, relaxed him enough to let him drift off to sleep. He needed rest too, Bruce had said. 

Dean's hand slipped down Castiel's back, just a few inches. Cas's white wings were hanging limply at his sides, only giving a twitch every so often. Dean wasn't sure if that meant he was getting weaker or what, but it worried him. His hand slipped lower, nearly to the joint of Cas's left wing. The pads of Dean's fingers caught on something rough. He looked away from Cas's bobbing throat to his back. On his right side, Cas's smooth skin flowed into the downy feathers of his wing's joint seamlessly. But here, the left wing joint was surrounded by whorls of scar tissue, ridged like an oyster shell. Dean's fingers traced the pink, puckered skin again, curious.

"Dean?" Cas's voice was low. He didn't turn around or pull away, just stayed completely still as Dean looked him over. 

"Where did this come from?" Dean touched his thumb to the worst of it, a thready path that curved under Cas's shoulder blade. He hadn't noticed the scar during the car ride, since Cas had spent most of the time laying on his back with his head pillowed in Dean's lap.

Castiel's hand rifled through his nest of blankets as if searching for a coat that wasn't there. "It's nothing," he said. "May I have my harness? I want to put on a shirt."

"No, Bruce said the harness could chafe your wound." Dean splayed his hand across Cas's back between his wings, feeling his body heat roll off him in waves. He shifted to sitting cross-legged at Cas's side. "Too hot up here anyway." His own Metallica tee and jeans were already damp with sweat. 

Cas didn't meet his eyes. 

Dean removed his hand and cleared his throat. "Sorry. You don't want to talk about—"

"My mother took a knife," Castiel said, "and she tried to cut it out of me." 

There wasn't a lot you could say to that. Dean watched Cas's face, hoping for some clue about what the right response might be, but he was a blank slate. Nothing in his eyes, just staring at the blankets and bunched sleeping bags beneath him. 

"What happened?" Dean asked instead.

Cas shrugged, his wings lifting slightly with the motion. "I ran. I hid. I didn't go back."

"Yeah, I can understand that." 

He turned to look at Dean, his blue eyes cold. "Did your parents ever try to cut off your arms, Dean?"

Dean blinked. "What? No—"

"Then you don't understand." Castiel turned away, fixing his eyes on the small circular window in the attic's peak. Dean had propped it open, hoping to encourage air circulation, but all it really afforded was a view of a tiny patch of cloudless sky. 

Dean cleared his throat, following Cas's gaze to the bit of blue. He thought of what he could say in response ( _Maybe I do understand, you don't know, I'm trying, okay?_ ) but too many seconds ticked by. Saying anything at that point would've sounded hollow and whiny, so Dean kept his mouth shut. 

Cas drained the last of the iced tea from his glass and handed it back to Dean. "Maybe you should go talk to Sam," he said. 

Dean snorted. "I'd rather get punched in the windpipe. It'd be easier." He fiddled with the rusty zipper on the edge of the open sleeping bag. 

"I feel the same way about speaking with you at the moment," Cas muttered, lowering himself back down on the floor with a sigh. 

Dean frowned down at him. "What the hell did _I_ do?" 

Cas said nothing. He closed his eyes as if settling in for another long round of sleep. Dean huffed into the heat. 

"If you think I'm going to be the one to apologize after all these years Sam's been lying to me, well, you got another thing coming." Still no response from Cas. Dean tried again. "I asked him, you know. Plenty of times. He promised everything was fine, that he wasn't getting visions anymore, and he was just—"

Castiel turned away from him, onto his side, leaving Dean to stare at the back of his dark head. "Oh, now you're giving me the silent treatment?" 

One limp wing flopped against the floor, seemingly agitated though Castiel didn't move another muscle. Dean scrubbed a hand across his face. "Fine," he said. "Whatever. I'm thirsty anyway." He swung down the unfolded ladder and descended into the house, where the air was slightly cooler and tasted less like Castiel.

______________________

"Forget it!" Tony yelped, tossing the wireless soldering iron to the carpet, where it smoked dangerously in the shag pile. "I can't do this! It's impossible." He waggled a half-finished gauntlet in Bruce's face. Luckily for Bruce, the repulsors weren't operational. Hence Tony's distress. "I would have to be a magician to make this work, which pisses me off because apparently magic is a thing now. And I hate it because I don't have any."

The gauntlet got thrown on the floor too. Bruce reached over and snatched up the soldering iron before it burned another black mark into Mrs. Moseley's cream-colored rug. "Hey, quick reminder," he said. "This is the guest room. As in, we are the guests. And guests don't usually destroy their host's things." 

"What? Oh. Right." Tony waved a distracted hand, already a million miles away. He flopped across the length of the daybed he'd commandeered, moaning into the lace-edged throw pillows. From his seat on the floor, Bruce reached up and gave Tony's ankle a consoling pat. 

"Take a break, clear your head," he said as he turned off the soldering iron and picked up his tablet once more. If he could just compare a few more of these data sets, he could be sure about where the communication signals were being sent. 

Tony swung sideways so his head was dangling backwards off the edge of the mattress beside Bruce's, his bare feet planted on the wall. "I could use a drink. Do you drink? I bet you don't."

Missouri had made it very plain the night before, as Bruce prepared to sleep on the guest room floor for ten straight hours, that she did not have any alcohol in her house, and if Mr. Stark needed something to drink, he would just have to make due with Diet Pepsi. Bruce had nodded in answer for Tony, who had already passed out on the daybed, snoring peacefully. Bruce had wondered why Missouri was mentioning it at all, and she just said, "I can hear him thinking it." 

"I could use some help with this," he told Tony instead, not wanting to alarm him with the prospect of a scotch-less existence just yet.

Tony spared an annoyed glance at Bruce's screen and heaved a dramatic sigh. "You already have the answer. Look." He enlarged the window on the far left with a flick of his fingers. Even upside-down, his quirked mouth looked unhappy. "Huh. That's not good, is it?"

Bruce shook his head. "I'm not finished. It could still be interference or—"

"Bruce." Tony's voice was low and serious. "Call a spade a spade. You just discovered a new dimension." He shrugged, his shoulders rolling on the edge of the mattress. "Too bad Hell's already got a name; we could have called it Bannertopia."

Bruce pulled his wire-framed glasses off his nose and rubbed his tired eyes. "Okay, let's say it's Hell. And I've intercepted messages to Hell from Washington, New York, London, Bogota.... It'll take weeks to decipher them all." 

"It would take most people weeks." Tony grinned, his teeth showing. "You can do it in days. I've seen your work. Show off a little."

"The last time I showed off, I woke up naked surrounded by tanks," Bruce said, turning his head to pin Tony with a wry look. 

"Come on. One of us should get something done. Without Jarvis, I'm basically useless." Tony reached back toward the gauntlet on the floor and spun it like a bottle. The movement forced his spine to describe a cat-like arc. Bruce chuckled. "What?" Tony asked. 

"You...you're Tony Stark. You built the first Iron Man suit in a cave while on the verge of cardiac arrest. You don't think you can build the seventh one in Ms. Moseley's guest bedroom?" Bruce raised his eyebrows into an apologetic ridge. 

Tony blinked. "Well. When you put it that way." He held his hands out, flashing his fingers open and closed in a 'gimme' motion. Bruce dutifully put the gauntlet in one hand, the soldering iron in the other. "Last one done buys the other a drink, all right?"

"Deal," Bruce said. He squinted at his screen and hooked his glasses back over his ears. Good thing his Latin was only a little rusty.

______________________

Dean shuffled into Missouri's kitchen on bare feet, hoping to avoid the house's other inmates. No such luck: Sam was already there, leaning against the low mint green countertop, bathed in sweat and chugging a soda. He finished with a loud 'Ahhhhhh' before noticing Dean in the doorway.

Dean nodded to him. Sam nodded back. Dean pulled open the fridge door and stared at the cold shelves. The silence was only punctuated by Missouri's car backfiring in the driveway and the muted hiss of Stark working upstairs. 

Sam lifted his eyes to Dean, that big, sloppy puppy look plastered all over his face. Dean fought the urge to roll his eyes as he poured himself some iced tea. It felt weird, knowing that, no matter what happened, they could never go back to exactly the way things had been. 

Dean sipped at his glass and leaned against the wall. Across from him, on the other side of the hallway, was the beaded curtain that led to the room where Missouri gave her psychic readings. Dean could see a bundle of sheets and a pillow on one end of the narrow corduroy sofa in there. The thought of his brother jamming his oversized frame onto such a tiny couch made him smile despite himself, and before he could think twice, he said, "You crashed there last night?"

"Yeah." Sam rubbed the back of his neck. "How was the attic?" 

"Fine. Hot." Dean stared down into his iced tea. The cubes were already melted into little slivers. He could just leave the kitchen, but he didn't want to go back upstairs if Cas's panties were still in a wad. "Cas thinks you and I should talk." Dean snorted like it was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard.

"Do you want to talk?" Sam asked.

"No," Dean said, a long, drawn-out, emphatic growl. He glanced up at Sam. "Do you?"

"Not really." Sam crinkled his Diet Pepsi can in his hand. He sighed and tossed his too-long hair out of his eyes. "Look, I know you think mutants are one step away from vampires and ghosts and whatever else we've hunted—"

"I never said that," Dean said quickly.

"You were pro-Registration. What was I supposed to think?" 

"You're supposed to think I'm your brother! After all this shit we've been through, you're supposed to trust me! I would've listened, I would've figured something out, I—" Dean slammed his glass down on the counter, leaning in dangerously close. "You can't hide who you are from me and expect me to be happy about it!"

"Oh my god, you are the _biggest_ hypocrite," Sam said.

Dean stood up straighter. "What's that supposed to mean?" 

"It means I—" Sam's jaw ticked as if he was going to hold back, but he didn't. "I know you're gay, Dean! And I know you hid it from Dad till the day he died! So don't talk to me about hiding, okay?" 

Dean saw his hand reach blindly for the edge of the counter, like it was someone else's hand and Dean was numb to its movements. For a moment he thought he was dreaming, or that he'd just misheard. But no. Sam was red-faced and panting, his eyes already filling with regret at his outburst. Dean swallowed. His mouth wasn't working, but he couldn't speak.

"Dean, I'm— I'm sorry," Sam said. "I didn't mean to jump down your throat like that." 

"How?" Dean asked, his voice a rasp on his tongue. "How did you...?"

Sam pulled a stool out from under the counter and sat with his hands clasped between his knees. "Casey Taylor," he said.

Dean stared at him blankly. "Who's Casey—?" But then he remembered, all in a rush: the summer in Idaho. Dad had partnered with a hunter who had a son a few years older than Dean. Sam had been, what, thirteen? Fourteen? Dean had just turned eighteen. And Casey, with those tight jeans and cowboy boots, would watch him at target practice till the sun went down, letting Dean show off his quick-draw. 

Nothing had happened. Nothing could happen. But if he thought back hard enough, Dean could still see the shape of Casey's full lips pulled into a smile. Could smell the tang of his sweat. Damn, the guy had smelled good, like cedar.

"Oh," Dean said. "Him."

Sam chewed on his lip and looked straight down at his boots. "My powers were just starting to manifest. I didn't understand what was going on at first. I felt all these—these _things_ for Casey out of nowhere. I thought I was going crazy." He shrugged, a helpless lift of his shoulders. "Then I realized it wasn't me. It was all coming from you. And I just..." Sam breathed a broken laugh into his palm. "I figured you'd tell me eventually, when you were ready. But you never were."

Dean felt his face and neck flood with a red-hot flush. "It's not any of your goddamn business who I—"

"No, I know," Sam said. "There were just so many times I wanted to just tell you that you didn't have to keep sneaking around. But I couldn't tell you how I'd found out. So I kept my mouth shut." He steeled his jaw. "We both did."

Dean shook his head. It wasn't the same. Psychic powers, especially in this day and age, had a little more bearing on their work than anything Dean did in the sack. He wanted to rail at Sam, to curse him out for being such a smug little shit about this, for using this against him. 

"I don't care that you like guys, Dean. I haven't cared for ten years," Sam said. 

"Yeah?" Dean felt his hands balling into tight fists at his sides. "Well, I'm glad it's such a non-issue for you," he said with all the venom he could muster.

"Dean—"

"Fuck you, Sam." Dean left the kitchen with single-minded purpose, nearly knocking over Bruce on his way out. 

"Everything okay?" Bruce called at Dean's retreating back. Dean didn't answer, just banged the screen door as he went out the back way for some fresh air.

______________________

Castiel could hear the light footsteps on the attic ladder as if from a great distance. He'd fallen into one of those half-waking daylight dreams, but even in that state, he knew it wasn't Dean coming up the steps. Dean's footfalls were heavy and spoke of deep-seated tiredness. These feet stepped softly.

"Castiel?" The voice that woke him was soft, too.

"Dr. Banner." Cas uncurled and stretched as far as his injured side would allow. He blinked up at Bruce's face. 

"Came up to see how you were doing. Plus my eyes were starting to cross; I needed a break. How are you feeling?" 

"Better," Cas said automatically. He saw Bruce was handing him another glass of iced tea, and he took it with a sigh. "Dean won't go an hour without making me drink something." 

"Good, that's good." Bruce's head bobbed in a nod. He sank to one knee by Cas's side and gestured to the bandages on his ribs. "May I?"

Cas sipped his drink from the provided straw in a disinterested way while he let Bruce lift the gauze and examine the wound. "Will I be able to fly soon?"

"It's healing nicely. Give it another day or so, just to be safe," Bruce said. He replaced the gauze with a fresh square, his mouth quirking from side to side. He opened his mouth, then closed it, then said, "You know..." He gave a self-conscious shrug. "Nevermind."

"What is it?" Cas asked.

"Nothing, it's just," Bruce ran a hand through his sweat-damp curls, "Dean looked a little rattled when I saw him downstairs. This thing with his brother—I know it's none of my business, but we're all going to need to focus on winning this—whatever this is—war, I guess." 

Cas turned his narrowed eyes on Banner, curious. "I can't speak for Dean," he said, "but I am focused." 

Bruce sank to the wooden floor on his haunches, his eyes quiet and dark, his palms rubbing together between his knees. "Look, I don't want to tell you how to live your life," Bruce said. "But sometimes it's better to avoid...complications. Do you know what I mean?" His brows canted in immeasurable sympathy, his voice soft as an animal tamer's. 

Castiel bristled. "I know what you're trying to insinuate," he said evenly. 

Bruce held up his hands, defensive. "I'm not judging, it's just that you and Dean have spent an awful lot of time alone up here."

 _Not by choice_ , Cas wanted to say, but that wasn't entirely true. It was a choice: Dean's. Dean could have left him to heal alone in the attic, or entrusted his care to Dr. Banner. But it was Dean who had brought him cold things to drink; who had arranged the dusty box fans to keep Cas from sweating to death; who had found him more pillows in the linen closet and changed his dressings and mopped his warm forehead with a damp cloth late at night. Dean's gentle hands and his full lips that stretched into a grin when he caught Cas looking at him. Cas felt his heart pound double-quick in his chest. He rubbed absently at his sternum and looked over at Bruce, who was still gazing at him with pity.

"Castiel, people like us? We're better off alone, trust me, I—"

"What do you mean, people like us?" Cas said. "I'm not like you, Dr. Banner. I didn't choose this." Cas flapped his wings for emphasis. "Whatever you are, you did it to yourself."

Bruce's jaw ticked twice, and Cas felt a spark of fear run up his spine. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"No, you're right." Banner fisted his hands together and stared down at them. "The Hulk is my fault. I have no one to blame for the accident but myself." He swallowed. "But the fact is, it's better to keep your distance when you have a burden like this, whether you asked for it or not. It's safer that way. For everyone."

"What about Stark?" Cas asked in a quiet undertone. 

Bruce's gaze shot up. "What about him?"

"You're not keeping much distance there." Castiel drew his wings closer around his shoulders. "'Do as I say, not as I do,' doctor?" 

Bruce shook his head, a light chuckle escaping his lips. "Well. That's a— That's a fair point." He gnawed on his lower lip in thought. "Of all the people I could end up trusting, I didn't think it would be the poster boy for Registration."

Castiel hesitated, remembering what Dean had said to Sam. The anger in his eyes, the way his voice had snarled around the word 'mutant.' Cas rubbed his temple; a headache was forming. "May I have another aspirin?" 

"Yeah, of course." Bruce stood and stuck a hand into his jean pocket, producing a rattling bottle of pills. He measured two in his cupped palm. "I shouldn't have stuck my nose in. Just— Be careful, okay, Cas?" 

Cas took the proffered pills. "I will try."

______________________

Stark was squinting into a knot of wires when Sam came into the guest bedroom and banged a hard plastic case down on the doily-covered nightstand.

"You need a tattoo," he said, opening the case with a yank. 

Tony looked up at him, slowly taking a stiletto-thin screwdriver out of his mouth to speak. "Interesting fashion ultimatum. Unfortunately, my body is a temple."

"It's to protect you from demons. Coulson took our last anti-possession charm." He lifted the tattoo gun out of the case. The thing looked like it had been made out of a teaspoon, a drill, and game of Operation. "Take off your shirt."

"You're going to ink me? Here? Like some 1940s sailor bar?" Stark looked more than incredulous, he looked on the verge of laughter. "A million times no."

Sam held on to the last scraps of his patience. "Well, it sure will be interesting to see the armor piloted by some soulless Hellspawn," he said.

Ten minutes later, Stark was shirtless in a squeaky rocking chair while Sam transferred a pentagram over his heart using a sheet of carbon paper stolen from a waitress's notepad outside of Cincinnati. He was careful to avoid the scar tissue that snaked outward from the glowing circle in the middle of Tony's chest. Tony watched him with narrowed eyes. 

"It won't hurt if you touch it," he said, tapping it with a fingernail. "Arc reactor. Keeps my heart from being shredded into pieces. Got it when—"

"I know what happened," Sam said quickly. "I mean, I felt it. Back in California."

"Right, our little mind meld." Tony sucked his teeth and watched Sam snap the pieces of the homebrewed tattoo gun together. "Whoa, can I see that?" Sam hesitated, but handed over the gun once he felt the earnest wave of curiosity fizzle through the room. 

"You made this?" Stark asked, examining the tool with a wide grin. 

"Dean did," Sam said. At Tony's questioning glance, he shrugged. "He's pretty handy, always was. Made his own EMF meter out of a Walkman."

"Dear god, I'm in love." Tony caressed the soldered joints of the gun, not taking his eyes off it. 

Sam couldn't hold in the laugh. "You two deserve each other," he said with more bitterness than he'd intended. He shook the bottle of black ink in his hand and held it up to the light, then peeled open an alcohol swab.

"Want to share something with the class, Sam?" Stark frowned. 

Sam shrugged and concentrated on wiping down a small patch next to Tony's left nipple. "Forget it."

"Hey. Look at me." 

It was strange, how such an outrageous motormouth could become so boardroom-serious in the blink of an eye. Sam found himself complying with the order and holding Tony's gaze. 

"Your brother," Stark said, "is a dick. But he's supposed to be; he's your brother. I've never had one, so I don't know how it works, exactly, but from my limited observation of every other person on the planet, I think this is par for the course. Maybe a little extraordinary what with the mutant powers and the imminent apocalypse, but still just brothers being dicks."

Sam snorted. "Tell me something I don't know."

"He's head over heels for Feathers up there." Stark waggled his eyebrows in the direction of the attic. 

"Again," Sam sighed, "something I _don't_ know. Empath, remember?"

"Right. I'm not one for snooping, but different strokes." He pulled a face, a grimace that said 'oops, oh well.' 

Sam clicked on the tattoo gun with a loud whir. "Try to stay still," he said.

"This doesn't really hurt, does—? _Oh_ , sweet mother of god, that is—" Tony's fingers clawed at the arms of the rocking chair. "Tickles," he said between gritted teeth.

"I take it back. You're worse than Dean," Sam said with a small smile. 

Missouri came into the guest bedroom just as Sam was finishing up the last black lick of flame around Tony's new tattoo. She pronounced it 'not bad' and placed a tall stack of clothes on the daybed. 

"I was thinking of getting a barbed wire armband later. Maybe a butterfly tramp stamp." Tony winced as Sam pressed the needle to his skin with one final flourish. 

"All done," Sam said. The tattoo was a duplicate of the ones Dean and Sam had on their own chests. Stark's was a little lower, though, to make it level with his arc reactor. He'd specifically asked Sam for that, claiming OCD. 

"Great. Perfect." Tony stared down at the reddened skin of his chest. "Slap a band-aid on it; I'm going to go—"

"Oh, no you're not," Missouri said. 

"...out," Tony finished. He frowned at Missouri's back; she was still absorbed with sorting through the pile of clothes. "Does it ever get boring, always being five steps ahead?"

"You tell me, mister genius," Missouri returned mildly. "Buying new clothes for yourself and Bruce is a nice idea, sure. Can't keep borrowing Dean's things. But think it through. Everyone in the K-Mart is going to recognize that stupid goatee of yours."

"Hey! My facial hair is not stupid, first of all. And second, K-Mart?" Tony stroked his goatee with a pained look. "The world isn't over _yet_."

Sam hid his smirk by busying himself with putting the tattooing kit away. 

"Well, I've decided to avoid all sorts of potential disasters." Missouri smacked a hand down on the clothing. "They were my son's. They're a little big, but they should do the trick." 

Sam scanned the walls until he found a framed photograph that showed a slightly younger Missouri hugging a tall stick of a boy in a '90s neon tee shirt. Tony followed Sam's gaze too.

"Very handsome kid," Tony said. He picked up a wrinkled Nine Inch Nails tee shirt and held it against his chest to check the fit. "With good taste." 

Missouri smiled. "There's that charm I keep hearing about on the news."

The boy in the photo was only a teenager, but he should have been an adult by now. And Missouri had kept his clothes all this time. Sam reached out for Missouri in his mind, and he felt a faint longing in her heart. "Was he—?" Sam swallowed. 

"He lives in Ohio with his wife and baby," Missouri said with a shrug. "He's fine, Sam. Damn, but you worry a lot."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to imply—"

"—that the only reason I started hunting ghosts was because I must've lost my family to one?" Missouri shook her head. "I do the job because I've been blessed with a gift. I didn't need some personal tragedy to show me my path." She glanced between Tony and Sam. "No offense." 

"None taken," Tony said with a raised eyebrow. 

Bruce chose that moment to reappear, eyes widening only a little at the sight of Tony's tattoo. "Please don't tell me it was peer pressure," he said. Then, catching sight of the clothing on the daybed, his eyes lit up. "Oooh. Pants."

______________________

Castiel agreed to Sam's stupid plan with one condition: that they do it in the dark, far away from Missouri's house. They talked it over while eating Missouri's spaghetti and meatballs at the kitchen table, Cas curling his pasta around his fork while using a soup spoon as a little fork-platform. Dean had never seen anyone do that before. Before the dishes were cleared away, Dean had insisted on coming too.

"You can fall on your face for all I care, but Cas is still healing," he groused at Sam as they loaded up the car with flashlights and bottles of Gatorade. 

"I get it, Dean, you're still pissed at me. That doesn't change the fact that I need to learn how to fly and Cas happens to be an expert," Sam said. 

Dean shoved another blanket into the backseat with a glare. "Well, if he pulls his stitches because of your little flying lesson—"

"I told you, I'm fine." Cas stepped out of the carport door with slow care, Dean's heavy leather jacket draped over his shoulders to hide his wings. "Dr. Banner said I shouldn't stay cooped up in the attic, after all." He eyed the dark driveway warily. 

"It's all right, no one's watching." Sam gestured to Cas and opened up the passenger door for him. Dean shot Sam a look, which Sam answered with a faux-innocent _who, me?_ raise of his eyebrows. Dean's mouth twisted sourly, but he held his tongue.

Dean drove them through Lawrence in silence, past the strip malls and the Wal-Mart and down a rutted road that ran between two wheat fields. Dean surveyed the flatness of the land and the deep dark of the night sky; the moon was thin tonight, and out here there were no streetlights, no houses, no other cars, no sign of life to speak of. They might have been the only three people left in the world.

"Here," Castiel finally said, pointing to a small hammock of oak trees on the edge of a clearing. Dean guided the Impala onto the dusty shoulder. The engine cut and ticked, and the chittering of crickets took over in the quiet. 

It was strange for Dean, leaning there against the side door of the car and just watching his brother and Cas from a distance. Sam hovered a few inches off the ground, his ankles flexing in the air, while Cas looked on and said, "It's much like swimming. Remember, you are doing something the human body was not designed to do. Think aerodynamically. Make yourself thinner, longer, to cut through the air."

Sam wobbled in the air like a seal just learning to balance on a beach ball. 

"Do you understand?" Cas asked.

"Yeah. Sure." Sam dropped half an inch, his arms flailing as if to catch himself. "Actually, no," he confessed.

Dean caught the tail-end of Cas's eye-roll and smirked down at his feet. 

"It's harder for me," Sam said in a defensive pitch. "I have to control everything with my mind. You have wings; that's all muscle memory." 

"Flight isn't about muscles," Cas said. He reached up and smoothed his hands down Sam's arms, bringing them in close to his sides. "It's about becoming an arrow, a bird, something that belongs in the sky."

"Uh, okay?"

"You have to belong to the sky," Cas insisted. 

Dean snorted, drawing their attention to him. He glanced up. "Sorry, but this sounds like a big crock of zen bullshit."

"I apologize." Cas bristled, holding himself more stiffly. "I've never had to teach someone else how to fly before. If you know of a better method, by all means, Dean, please share." He shrugged Dean's jacket off his shoulders, his wings spreading wide in the night air.

"Yeah, Dean," Sam said. He floated another two inches into the air. "Cut us some slack."

"You look like a ballerina," was the best retort Dean could think of.

Sam pointed his toes. "Got any other remarks to make yourself feel more macho?" 

"We're wasting time." Cas flapped his wings and rose into the air, his bandages stark against his naked torso. 

Dean watched him with a pinched look. "Hey, don't overdo it," he called. 

"Let's go, Sam," Cas said, ignoring Dean. "Try to keep up." He snapped his wings back in a powerful burst of speed, and Sam followed him up into the night sky with a grin on his face. 

Dean crossed his arms over his chest and tried very hard not to think about how he was literally being left behind. He picked some dirt from under his thumbnail. Strolled over to where his jacket laid abandoned in the dirt and shook it out. Checked his watch. Finally gave in, clicked on his flashlight, and followed their flight on foot. He could hear Sam's whoops as he circled through the air high above Dean's head. 

"Like an arrow," he heard Cas's voice on the wind. "Like a bird."

Eventually Dean sat down at the edge of a field lying fallow. He set the flashlight at his feet, a beacon for Sam and Cas to find. Long minutes passed, maybe an hour. By the time Sam touched down, his cheeks were red with windburn. Dean remained sitting, plucking stems of grass and tearing them into smaller and smaller pieces. 

[](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/439/36876)

"That was awesome!" Sam pumped his arms through the air as if working out the kinks. 

Dean didn't answer, just waited until Cas appeared, landing gracefully on his bare feet with a few flaps of his wings. His hair was windblown into wild shapes, his face stained with high color. His breathing was heavy, but at least he wasn't pale and wane anymore. 

"How's the war wound?" Dean asked him.

Cas glanced down at the bandages wrapped around his ribs. "Fine. I feel better. Must be the fresh air." 

"Must be," Dean said. He watched Cas wipe the sweat off his brow. "There's stuff in the car if you're thirsty." 

"Thank you." Cas nodded to Sam. "I'll be back in a moment. Continue hovering. Focus on your control."

Sam grinned. "Sure thing, sensei. Wax on, wax off."

Cas gave him a confused look, then took to the air and flew out of sight. Dean watched him go, trying and failing to think of something he could say to Sam while the silence stretched. 

"So." Sam's feet left the ground with just a few inches between his toes and the grass. "Castiel."

Cas and his recovery were a safe topic, and Dean was glad for it. "His movement's improved, which is good. Another day and the gauze can come off. Banner said—"

"Dean," Sam said, all earnest and understanding. "I know you have feelings for him, okay?" So much for skipping the awkward.

Dean gaped. "Did you just read my mind? Jesus, Sam, you— Stay out of my fucking head!" 

"I'm not doing it on purpose! Missouri's been teaching me to control it, but," Sam shrugged in apology, "really strong feelings just sort of...pop up." 

"They're not _that_ strong," Dean grunted. 

Sam pursed his lips and let his wide eyes wander toward the stars, like he had something to say and was trying his best not to blurt it out. 

"I just met the guy, like, a week ago," Dean said.

"Right," Sam agreed. 

"You can't fall for someone that fast! Who does that?" Dean screwed up his face. "No one. It's totally chick-flick. This is real life, Sam."

"Exactly." Sam hovered a little closer. 

A quick glance from Sam's feet to the ground, and Dean muttered, "I mean, I might _like_ him. That's not impossible. He's a good guy. Saved our asses, he didn't have to do that." 

Sam smiled his goofy golden retriever smile. "True." 

Dean cocked his head, curled his lip into practiced disinterest. "So." He swallowed. "So are you picking up anything from Cas's, uh, direction?" He tossed a bit of grass over his shoulder. "Any feelings or—?"

"You should be asking Cas about that," Sam said, smirking. "You're the one who's in love with him." 

"Would you shut up about—"

"You're in love with me?" 

Dean twisted around in shock. He'd been listening for Castiel's wings, that trademark fluttering sound that would mark his return, but it looked like Cas had come back on foot. And he was standing there, wide-eyed, with three wet bottles of orange Gatorade clutched to his bare chest.

Sam landed on the ground with a heavy _plonk_. 

"Cas!" Dean scrambled to his feet. "I—" And there was a long beat of silence, because what could he say? His throat worked uselessly. "I didn't—"

"I'm sorry." Cas's voice was strangely calm. "I have to go." He bent to drop the bottles on the grass, then spread his wings. 

For one sharp moment, Dean thought about making Sam grab hold of Cas with his telekinesis, to trap him like a bug in amber and force him to stay, to hear Dean out. Anything to keep him from flying away and never coming back. If he could just _make_ Cas listen—

But Castiel was already gone without even a feather in the grass to prove he'd been there. Dean watched the sky dumbly. 

He jumped when Sam's hand gentled around his shoulder. "Maybe we should—"

Dean shrugged off his brother's touch. " _This_ is why I hate mutant powers," he growled. "You think it's funny, messing with people like this?"

"I just wanted to be honest with you. I thought you didn't want any more secrets. I didn't mean to—"

"Oh, you didn't _mean_ to. Well, guess what, Sammy? All your good intentions mean shit." He turned and stalked back toward the car, not caring if he left Sam behind. He could fly; let him fly his ass back to Missouri's. Or not, Dean wouldn't mind. 

"It's not the powers you hate," Sam called after him.

"Pretty sure it is," Dean muttered, still not turning back. 

"The world's about to end, Dean!" Sam shouted. "I can't afford to hide what I am like you do."

"I ain't hiding." Dean fished his car keys out of his pocket; he could see the Impala up ahead through the trees. 

"Yes you are." Sam was suddenly at his side, floating in the space that had been empty. "Just stop. I mean it." He floated right into Dean's path. "Stop it."

Dean rolled his eyes, arms flapping at his sides in frustration. "What do you want me to do, Sammy? Take a break from the apocalypse to have myself a little parade?"

"Dad would've loved you still," Sam said. The words seemed to be spilling out of him like a dam had broken. "That's a fact, all right? I'm not just pulling this out of thin air; I knew how Dad felt. Sometimes I didn't want to because it was complicated and knotted up with how much he missed Mom, but Dean, you've got to believe me when I say: Dad loved you more than life. And I love you because you're family and that means we don't give up on each other. We've never given up on each other before, have we?"

"Sam—" Dean said. 

"Don't give up on me now, Dean," Sam said, jaw clenched. Tears were starting to brim over in his eyes. "Please. I can't do this alone." 

"Jesus, don't—" Dean pulled Sam into a hug, bringing his brother back to earth. Sam was getting tears and snot all over his shoulder, but Dean didn't care. He thought about all the times he'd gotten Sammy through crying jags as a kid, skinned knees and new towns and Christmases without Dad, and he held onto Sam as he gasped his way through this one. This was Sammy, who would always get on his nerves and piss him off and who had his back no matter what, psychic powers or no. 

"Quit fucking crying," Dean said. "It's okay, you're fine. We're going to be fine." He brought his hand up to cradle the back of Sam's head. "You're my brother; nothing's going to change that."

"I'm sorry about Cas," Sam said against his shoulder.

Dean glanced up at the sky, where the sickle moon hung alone. "I'm sorry, too. About everything. Your powers are awesome, all right? How many times have you used 'em to pull my ass out of the fire on the sly, huh?"

Sam sniffed. "A few." 

"Yeah, I figured. Come on." He gave his brother one last pat on the back. "We're over our limit for sob stories tonight. Let's get going."

______________________

Cas didn't come back to the field, and Sam and Dean couldn't find him, even after driving slowly through the back roads with their eyes on the sky. Dean had just about resigned himself to never seeing Castiel again, but when he dragged himself up the attic stairs, there he was, sitting cross-legged on their nest of blankets, bathed in the circle of moonlight that spilled from the circular window.

"You beat us home," Dean choked out. 

"Yes." Cas's wings rose and fell in time with his breathing. "I needed some time to think." 

Dean sat opposite Cas, grimacing as his knees creaked into an Indian-style position. "I get it. I would've flipped out too." But you came back, he wanted to say. He didn't because he wasn't sure what that meant. 

Cas nodded, his hands and gaze fixated on the frayed edge of an afghan. He worried a loose thread of yarn between his fingertips. "I admit I was...surprised."

Dean listened carefully. It sounded like—definitely not the happy kind of surprise. It sounded frightened. "I'm sorry," he said. He ran a hand through his hair. It was so stuffy in the attic, he was already bathed in sweat. He leaned forward, and Cas leaned away. Dean sighed. "I'm not going to jump you or anything, Cas. You're straight. That's fine. That's," he shrugged, "normal."

Cas's brow furrowed in confusion. "No, I'm not—"

Dean's heart sank, but he was determined not to be a complete loser about it. "Right. You don't dig me, is all." He rapped a knuckle against the floorboard. "Or whatever, you don't have to explain yourself to me."

"Dean, you're not listening. I don't—"

"Dude, you don't have to let me down easy or nothing. We have bigger fish to fry than the shit that's going on with me and my problems."

"Dean." Cas gave him a reproachful look. Dean shut his trap. "What I'm trying to tell you," Cas said slowly, "is that I've never been with anyone." He watched Dean's face closely. "Ever."

The words were clear, but Dean still couldn't process them. "Uh." Those blue, blue eyes, that perfect face, that pink mouth, all untouched? Dean licked his lips in thought. "All right. How is that, um, possible?" Even shoved far back in the closet as he'd been, Dean had found time for sex. How could someone as good and _gorgeous_ as Cas go without an offer for thirty-some years?

Cas folded his wings around himself tightly, a feathered coat for his bare skin. "My wings," Cas said softly. "Letting someone get too close...they would feel them, even with the harness, they would find out. I never trusted anyone enough to let them see." 

Dean's eyes flicked to those white wings. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked. "Do you think I won't—" _Careful here, Winchester._ "—be into you just because you've never slept with anyone?"

Cas looked to the side. His wings wrapped around him even tighter. 

"If it makes you feel any better, I don't have much experience with this either." Dean gestured between them. "Quickies off the freeway, sure; one-night stands in a town I was just passing through; most of them didn't even know my name. I sure as hell didn't care about theirs. I just wore a rubber and got back on the road as fast as I could."

"And I am somehow different?" Cas asked.

"Christ, of course you're—" Dean dragged a hand through his damp hair, trying to buy time to collect his thoughts. The next words he said were chosen carefully and spoken in a meditative whisper. "I don't care that you're a virgin. I don't care that you're a mutant. I don't care that you're a paranoid shut-in who doesn't get Karate Kid references. You saved my life, and you're going to save the world, even though me and the world haven't done much to deserve it." He shook his head, sat back, groaned as he gained his feet. "Do what you want with that. Pretend you never heard Sammy spill the beans; tell me to fuck off. It's up to you."

"Where are you going?" Cas asked, unfolding himself from his tight feathery ball. 

"Downstairs. I'll bunk with Stark and Banner tonight." The last thing he wanted was to force Cas to sleep next to him if it made him uncomfortable. Dean didn't look at their shared pile of blankets; he didn't want to think about how the pillows probably still smelled like the both of them.

"Don't." Cas reached up, grasped Dean's wrist. Tugged him back to the floor. Dean went willingly, his heart clenching in his chest. "Don't go. Don't, please." Cas's voice sped, taking on an almost pleading tone.

"Okay." Dean sat down again. "Whatever you want." 

"I want..." Cas swallowed. "Can you turn around?" 

Dean frowned. "Why?"

"Just, please. Can you?"

As distasteful as it was to take his eyes off Cas in this moment, when everything seemed fraught with importance, Dean did as he was told. He turned to face the moonlit window and brought his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them to keep steady. A long moment passed, and then he felt Cas's bare back settle against his own. He could feel heated skin and wing joints through the thin material of his tee shirt. 

"Cas?" 

"I want to show you what it feels like," Cas said, his voice a rumble up Dean's spine. "Do you want to see?"

Dean wasn't sure what the hell Castiel was talking about, but he couldn't quit now. "Yeah," he said. "Show me."

They sat back to back, Castiel's wings curling slowly around Dean's shoulders, the points where they joined Cas's skin digging into Dean's own. He could feel every little movement, every slight twitch. The joint with its whorls of scar tissue flexed right under Dean's shoulder blade, and the wing moved against his side. The other one joined in, enveloping him, caressing him with warm feathers that smelled of ozone. Dean breathed into a mass of feathers, nuzzling his cheek against them. 

"Can I?" He lifted a hand, tentatively brushing at the lean arch of Cas's left wing. 

Cas hummed in assent. "Go ahead."

Dean remembered Cas had compared his wings to arms, so he treated them like arms. He held the wrist, delicately shaped near the tapered edge, pulsing with life. He pressed his face to the bend of its elbow, shorter feathers bristling under his nose. He stroked the shoulder of it where it flowed down into Castiel's back, and imagined he was kissing the bare shoulder that was right behind him. 

"Those feathers are called coverts," Cas said in hushed tones. "I have always liked that."

"They're soft," Dean murmured into the silky mass of feathers. "Smells like—" Dean thought of the backseat where Cas had slept and bled for two days straight, the pile of blankets underneath them. "Like you do." 

"Of course." Cas's back shook; a laugh? "They are mine."

But with the wing joints flexing right behind him and the wings folding back over his body, Dean could almost believe, for one brief moment, that they were his. That's what Cas had meant, then. This was almost what it felt like to have wings.

One bold wingtip brushed behind Dean's ear. "Take off your shirt?" It was a question from Cas, no doubt about it. Dean waited to hear why. "They're very sensitive," he finally said, and his voice was low, wrecked, a shaky mess. 

Dean had never taken off a shirt so fast. 

Feathers everywhere, trailing up and down his flanks, across his chest, over his neck. Down the side of his face, sweeping away beads of perspiration from his temple. Dean closed his eyes and wished he could see Cas while they did this. He imagined how those eyes would follow the lines of his wings. That mouth, parted. 

If this was all they did, Dean was going to have to be okay with that. Didn't matter if he wanted to watch Cas watching him fall apart, didn't matter if he wanted to kiss that mouth, didn't matter if he wanted to bury his face between Cas's legs and taste every inch of him. This was Cas's show. 

He felt his erection growing in his jeans, pressing uncomfortably against the seam of his zipper, and tried to ignore it. A fat, downy feather brushed across Dean's lips, and he couldn't resist flicking his tongue against it. Cas gasped behind him, a shotgun sound in the close quarters of the attic.

"Sorry—" 

"Again," Cas said quickly. 

Dean followed orders. He lapped at the damp feather again, feeling the groan building through Cas's lungs, so in line with his own. He branched out, tasting the strange silk-slide of the longer feathers that splayed and twitched under his mouth. He gave one frantic wingtip a tiny nibble, scraping his teeth against the skin and bone underneath the feathers, and Cas jolted as if thunderstruck, a strange howl escaping his throat. 

"Hey, shhh, it's okay." Dean tried to twist around to face him, but the wings held him tightly cradled against Cas's back. 

"I—" Castiel panted for air. "We should stop. The others—they'll hear us."

"Let 'em hear," Dean whispered. "I want you to make that sound again."

Cas's wings stayed rigid for a heartbeat, then relaxed against Dean's body. "You don't mind?" he asked. 

No, he realized. He didn't. Dean grinned and laid his cheek on a sleek fall of white feathers. "Just tell me where it feels good." 

"Everywhere," Cas gasped. 

The absolute rapture in Cas's voice made Dean's cock twitch against his fly. He wished he could just take some of the pressure off, just for a moment. He looked out of the corner of his eye, wondering if Cas would freak. He pressed a kiss to the silky coverts that were brushing against his mouth, nuzzling them for a moment before saying, "Would you mind if I got a little more comfortable?"

He felt Cas's spine stiffen against his own. 

"You don't have to do anything," Dean said quickly. He didn't want to push Cas too far, too soon. "It's just driving me crazy." He cupped his palm over the bulge in his jeans, arching up into the touch and cursing his lack of self-control. 

"You would like to touch yourself?" Cas asked.

Dean swallowed. A feather dragged across his throat. "Yeah." 

Cas moved against his back, sticky with sweat. "All right."

Dean's fingers fumbled on the metal tab, his zipper opening with a loud hiss. White feathers obscured his vision, so he went by touch alone, sighing with relief as he pulled his erection out of the slit in his boxers. He stretched out one leg and kept the other crooked at the knee, holding onto it for balance with one hand. His other hand worked over his thickening cock, just a few tugs at first to take the edge off. But then the wings got in on the action, tickling and brushing against the sensitive head. Dean groaned, his head falling back against Cas's shoulder.

"A-are you all right?" Cas breathed. 

Dean nodded, his lower lip caught between his teeth. "Damn, you feel good." He rested more of his weight against Cas's back, and Cas took it. Dean snaked his free hand behind him over Cas's hip, rubbing hesitantly up and down his muscled thigh. 

Cas placed his hand over Dean's, keeping it locked against his leg. His wings curled tightly around Dean again; it should have been suffocating, but it just smelled so good and felt so strange on his overheated skin. Dean's breath caught as he jacked himself harder, then slowed to make it last. He heard a curious noise behind him, a slick-squish sound that mirrored his own. 

"You jerking yourself off?" he groaned. "Aw, Cas, yes."

"I—I couldn't wait any longer," Cas said in a raspy voice. 

"It's okay, let me hear you. Tell me how it feels, Cas."

"It feels—oh god—my wings—"

Dean pressed another kiss to the feathers closest to his face. "Feel so good, touching me all over," Dean whispered into them. 

"Yes," Cas choked out. The ridge of his right wing curled under Dean's chin, coaxing him to sit straighter, tripping down his chest to where his cock lay leaking in his palm. Dean could feel Cas's lungs against his back as they worked and trembled for air. 

Dean's fingers dug into the meat of Cas's thigh, Cas's fingers spidering over his own. He was so close, and he could feel Cas getting there too. Their shared wings shook. Sweat and precome coated Dean's fingers. They smelled of salt, the both of them. 

The noises Cas made were obscene, low little breathless gasps that jolted through his whole frame. They rose in volume in time with Dean's hand speeding over his cock. "Fuck, Cas." Dean's eyes closed tight. He wanted to hold on. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips and ended up lapping at Cas's wing. 

"Ah—! I can't—" Cas's spine bowed, his wings snapping wildly. 

"Go ahead, Cas, I'm right behind you," Dean murmured into his feathers. He bit down as gently as he could on the hard ridge of the left wing, and Cas cried out full-throated. He shook like a leaf against Dean's back, and imagining what he must have looked like, sweaty and legs splayed and covered in his own spunk, gave Dean the last push towards orgasm. He came with a loud grunt, his fingers twining with Cas's limp ones, milking streams, then drops of come onto his stomach. He lay slumped against Cas's back, panting. Cas's wings fell to their sides, twitching like mad. 

"Oh my god," Dean gasped. He squeezed Cas's hand in his. "That was...oh my god." He chuckled a little; he hadn't come like that in ages, and they hadn't even really touched. It seemed strange, but Dean didn't want to break the spell of their weird position just yet. He stayed facing forward, feeling Cas's sweaty back heave against his. "Cas?" Dean paused, but Cas didn't answer. "Hey, you all right?" 

He turned and caught Cas by the shoulders as he sagged toward the floor. "Whoa! Are your stitches—?"

"I'm fine," Cas mumbled. His eyes were closed, his face flushed. His dick was still hanging from the opening in his boxers, shrinking against his denim-covered thigh amid flecks of come. His wings gave another fierce twitch. "It's just—" Cas opened those big blue eyes and stared up at Dean. "Aftershocks." 

Dean watched the feathers jerk against the floorboards in fascination. "You weren't kidding about being sensitive."

Cas stretched languidly in Dean's arms. "Why would I lie?" he asked. 

Dean smiled to himself and wiped a sweat-soaked lock of hair off Cas's forehead. "Yeah, why would you?" 

"Are you going to kiss me?" Cas stared up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. 

"Maybe. Would you let me?"

Cas seemed to consider this question very seriously. "I think I would," he finally said, "but you'll have to be patient with me. I've never—" He bit his lip. How he could still be shy about kissing after what they'd just done was beyond Dean; it was just too—he didn't want to say _cute_ , but—Cas-like. 

"I know." Dean leaned over him. "We'll take it slow. Sneak downstairs in a little bit, share a shower. Fall asleep huddled together. I'll comb my fingers through your wings. Whatever you want." 

Cas was the one to lift his head and cross the space between them. Their lips brushed, warm and damp, almost chaste. "Thank you," Cas breathed. 

Dean kissed him in return, and they didn't stop until their little window was pink with the sunrise.

______________________

The interrogation room was situated in the basement of an out-of-the-way, decommissioned SHIELD installation that, bizarrely, still had well-stocked vending machines near each stairwell. Agent Coulson contemplated the vertical stacks of peanut M&M's and crumbling Hostess cakes before inserting three quarters and hitting buttons F and 8: Twizzlers.

He walked back into the interrogation room and tossed the slim package onto the stainless steel table. Ruby made a face at it but unwrapped it anyway, carefully peeling one strand of licorice from the brick inside. She wore no handcuffs, but her chair was placed smack in the middle of a textbook devil's trap, the lines of which Coulson had memorized from Dean's work back at the warehouse. 

"I wasn't sure if demons need to eat," he said.

"We don't." Ruby ripped a bite off one Twizzler and chewed. "But a little corn syrup never hurt anyone."

Coulson took a seat in the opposite chair, a hand on his ribcage to keep his tie from swinging. "Where were we?" He checked his notepad. "Can you please tell me how many SHIELD operatives have been possessed?" 

Ruby shrugged. "I don't know the exact number. Maybe thirty percent, staggered throughout global installations."

"And how many members of Congress?"

"Oh, just a handful," she said.

"Senator Kelly?"

Ruby smiled and snapped another bite off her Twizzler. "Nope. He's just an asshole naturally." 

Coulson furrowed his brow and made a notation on his notepad. "Have demons infiltrated the Oval Office?"

"Nah, but not for lack of trying. It's hard to get a foot in the door when there's a devil's trap etched underneath that ugly rug." Ruby sighed. "Fucking Lincoln."

"And Director Hill?"

"Only human. She's just trying to do her job as best she can." She leaned forward as far as the trap would allow, her dark eyes glittering in the harsh light. "Sorry to disappoint you, agent, but the fact is there aren't a ton of demons walking the earth. It's not easy to get a daypass out of Hell. All Crowley's lackeys had to do was place themselves in a few key positions—a personal assistant here, a therapist there—to get the wheels greased. The Registration Act was going to happen sooner or later. He just made sure it was sooner."

"Because demons can't overrun the planet with mutants standing against them," Coulson said. "Too powerful, can't be possessed." 

Ruby made a gun out of her hand and shot the air. "Bingo. Lucky for us, you humans can't stand them." 

"I'm less interested in the mechanics of human decency, Ms. Ruby, and more interested in how your kind plan on taking over if these daypasses are so hard to come by."

"Crowley's got a backer, a guy who's going to put in an expressway between here and Hell," she said. "He's got some special key that can open any door, is what I hear. I don't know how or where, but they'll open up the Pit like a can of tuna. And trust me, everything's going to stink once that happens." 

Coulson regarded her in quiet stillness for a long moment, remembering the southwest, the Asgardian attack, and another door that needed a key.

Ruby swallowed her bit of Twizzler. "What?"

"You're being exceedingly helpful." He hadn't even needed the can of salt or the flask of holy water that he'd stashed in his suit coat pockets. 

"Thought that's what you wanted." She winked.

"I want the truth," he said. 

Ruby leaned back in her chair, shaking out her long blonde hair. "I'll let you in on a little secret, _Phil_ : we demons are a lot like you humans. There's never just one side. You got your reds and blues, your suits and your hipsters. Crowley's not the only game in town. And he's sure as fuck not my game. If the only way I can bring him down is by giving you a hand, well, that's what I'll do." 

Coulson cleared his throat and tapped his pen against his papers. "What do you want with Dean Winchester?"

Another snap of Twizzler. "I don't know what you mean," Ruby said, the licorice still sticking out of the corner of her mouth.

"I heard you offer him a deal to lure him into Hell. Why wouldn't you want him to keep fighting Crowley's forces here, if you hate Crowley so much?"

Ruby lapped the red Twizzler into her mouth and pulled a face. "That little shit killed my general. So I wanted revenge; sue me."

Coulson shook his head. "No. You're not a hotheaded rogue operative who gets sidetracked while on a mission. Winchester _is_ your mission. Why?"

"I suggest you focus on the Crowley problem for now," Ruby said. 

"Oh, I intend to. I'm just a gifted multi-tasker." He flipped his notepad shut and slipped it into his suit coat. "Thank you for your assistance, Ruby," he said as he pushed back from the table. 

"Whoa, wha—? You're not going to just leave me here, are you?" Ruby's face twisted in fierce anger. "I'm the only one who knows what Crowley's doing! You have to bring me with you!"

"No I don't," Coulson said mildly. "I'll let you in on a little secret, Ruby. Your friendly neighborhood monster act may work on some people, but I'm not one of them. You want me and my people dead. I may not have the resources to deal with you at the moment, but I promise you, if I survive this battle, I will dedicate the entirety of my not-inconsiderable operating budget to developing an efficient way to exorcise every single demon from this world before destroying them. Painfully." He stood and straightened his lapels. "Have a nice day." 

"You're going to burn!" Ruby shouted at his retreating back. "Just like your fucking cyclops!"

Coulson turned, face like stone.

"Oh yeah." Ruby nodded. "Bet he didn't even tell you, paranoid bastard that he is. He went poking in all the wrong dark corners, Coulson. They're having a field day with Fury down in the Pit. And you'll never find him without me."

"Director Fury wouldn't want me to find him," Coulson said, "not with you." He clicked off the light, plunging the room in darkness. "Goodbye Ruby." The door opened, then closed, and he was gone.

______________________

"You know what I don't understand?" Crowley asked as he reclined in his plush velvet armchair. "What you get out of this deal." He swirled a smoky amber liquid in his snifter, watching it against the light of the candelabra.

Loki, across from him on the chesterfield, grinned with all his teeth. "Isn't it obvious? You provide an army, I provide the victory. That's all I want."

"Yes, but after." Crowley took another sip of his drink, glad to taste single-malt again. The dead man upstairs possessed an excellent cellar, if not his own body. "You do realize that opening a portal between Hell and Earth will result in, well, hell on earth? The end of days? What exactly do you think will be left for you to rule?" 

There was a cold kind of serenity in that otherworldly face, all sharp angles and white skin, flickering to grey-blue when he turned away from the candlelight. Loki adjusted the ends of his green silk scarf in his lap with a raised eyebrow. "Your concern is very touching. But believe me, Demon King: I will be sufficiently pleased once this world ends in flames."

"That's really all you want?" Crowley closed his eyes and allowed a blissful smile to cross his face. "It's like a dream come true," he murmured. Then, down to business, eyes open. "Shall we decide on the when and the where of this—what did you call it—glorious battle of yours?" 

Loki examined the ends of his fingernails. "The portal can be opened anywhere we wish. Do you have a preference?"

"Well, there are certain places on Earth that we demons consider more homey than others." Crowley gestured at one of the demons waiting in the shadows at the edge of the room, and he stepped forward to unroll a huge map across the walnut table between them. Crowley tapped a fingertip against the blase square of Colorado. "The Winchesters have already closed the gate here, which is a shame. Very thin walls between this world and Hell at that spot."

"Walls are meaningless when you wield such power as I do," Loki said. He cocked his head to the side and examined the landscape spread before him. "What is this?" He touched a bit of the map with delicate care. 

Crowley frowned. "Oh, you don't want that. It's too—"

"Important," Loki breathed, his eyes raking possessively over the large typeface that spelled out the city's name. "A beloved citadel of Midgard, is it not? Why not strike there, where the mortals' hearts and bowels will tremble at our coming?"

And this, Crowley knew, was the reason why you shouldn't make deals with self-styled gods. He set his glass on South America and steepled his fingers. "We can open this door of yours in South Dakota, or Cleveland, or Mongolia for shit's sake. Why should we start with New York?"

Loki waved a hand through the air. "You are a creature of darkness, and so naturally you wish to mount the assault away from prying eyes. You do not understand: you are no longer relegated to the shadows. When I lead your army to smash the humans, I will smash them in the face." He brought his fist down, sharp and quick, onto the map, reducing the wood tabletop beneath to cracked splinters. 

Crowley stifled an unimpressed yawn. "Your metaphor is all wrong. New York is about nighttime; they call it the City That Never Sleeps. If you want to do this in the daylight, you've got the wrong place."

"Ohhh." Loki's mouth made a perfect O. "A city that never sleeps. What a beautiful thought. So very different from Asgard." He turned back to the map. "I will attack at dawn. I will be bathed in sunlight and blood and ash, and its people will kneel before me, the new ruler of their Midnight City." 

Crowley regarded him from beneath boredom-lowered lashes. "It's your war, Loki. You can lead us wherever you like as long as you keep up your end of the bargain and let us harvest all the souls we want." 

"So it's decided," Loki said with another sly grin. "Shall we seal it with another kiss, then?"

"It is traditional," Crowley said, and rose to fulfill his part. The serving demon readied the brass bowl of blood to alert the generals.


	6. Chapter 6

[](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/439/35936)  


Tony popped a grape in his mouth and watched the scene unfolding at the breakfast table. Dean and Castiel had traipsed down from the attic together, not exactly hand-in-hand, but glancing at each other enough to confirm for Tony that last night's chorus of noises hadn't been some kind of Midwest-induced hallucination. Now they sat across from each other, locking eyes over their bowls of corn flakes before looking away too quickly. Sam and Missouri were trading looks of their own, and Bruce? 

Bruce remained glued to his StarkTab. Without looking up, he nudged the bowl of fresh fruit closer to Tony, and Tony dutifully selected a cube of honeydew. He tipped the bowl back toward Bruce, but Bruce just shook his head. 

"So," Tony drawled around the mouthful of melon. "How'd everyone sleep?" 

Dean looked at Cas, and Cas looked at Dean, and they both looked at each other's lips, then looked away, then looked back. It was exhausting. Sam choked on his spoonful of cereal. 

"Oh my _god_ ," he said between Missouri's whacks on his back. "Dean, could your feelings _be_ any louder?" 

Castiel, who was still bare-chested though his bandages had been removed, was overtaken by a blush that extended down his neck, past his collarbones, and through his torso. Tony was impressed. He'd considered the possibility that the isolationist mutant was a virgin, but this new development increased that likelihood to about 67%. Maybe an even 70. He'd consult with Bruce later, if Bruce could tear himself away from his data streams for a second.

"Knock it off, Sammy," Dean growled across the table. Now he and Cas had matching red faces. 

Sam coughed one last time. "I mean, I'm happy for you guys, don't get me wrong, but—"

"I said shut it."

"I'm just saying—"

Tony tuned them out and watched Bruce work. Man, he just didn't blink, did he? Maybe it was a Hulk thing, he thought. Maybe his eyes didn't need lubrication. Maybe—

Bruce's face hardened. The tablet fell from his hands and slid to the table. He unhooked his glasses from his ears with a look of disbelief. 

Tony sat forward. "What is it?"

The table fell silent, all eyes on Banner.

"The attack," he said. "It's going to be New York."

______________________

Missouri opened the door before Coulson even finished ringing the doorbell. She looked him up and down, no doubt taking in his standard SHIELD Armani and Ray Bans before giving a little sigh. "And I thought I could avoid you government types forever," she said.

Coulson glanced at the small laminated card nailed underneath the doorbell button. In a neat, flowing script was written _Missouri Moseley, palm readings and horoscopes. 12-4 PM daily and by appointment._. His lips quirked at the corners. "You did. Very clever, hiding in plain sight like that." He took off his sunglasses and slipped them into his breast pocket. "My name's Agent Coulson."

"I know. You're here for Stark and the boys." She opened the door wider, frowning. "How did you find them, anyway?"

"Tracker on the kid's car. Works every time." Coulson stepped into the house and allowed Missouri to lead him down the hallway. 

"Boys," Missouri called up the staircase. "The Fed is here." 

"SHIELD, actually," Coulson said with no sharpness. 

"To me, that's a Fed." Missouri gestured for him to follow her. Footsteps pounded down the stairs, and soon everyone had passed through the beaded curtain to join them in Missouri's sitting room. 

"A van?" Bruce squinted through the blinds. "I sort of thought we'd be taking a chopper."

"It was the best I could do on short notice and without alerting the possessed agents," Coulson said. "I hope your team has intel on the attack's location."

Bruce grimaced. "You're not going to like it. The demons want New York City."

Coulson gave a short nod as if he'd expected this. "Not just demons. Someone else. I went up against one of his toys in New Mexico last year."

Tony lifted his head. "Not the trickster god? Loki?" 

"I believe so. The demon we captured in California shared some interesting information," Coulson confirmed. "I can debrief the team on the way." 

Tony looked around the room with a comically doubtful look on his face. Coulson saw what he was seeing: a room full of sleep-deprived metas, mutants, and humans who were barely holding it together. 'Team' was a very generous word. 

Stark shook his head. "This is crazy. But the world's ending and it's not like the X-Men are going to save it. Unless you can bust them out of the Negative Zone?"

"Negative. Too many SHIELD operatives are possessed, and I'm betting quite a few of them are on Zone detail." Coulson frowned at the duffel sitting at Tony's feet. "Please tell me you have a working suit of armor in there."

Tony clutched the bag to his chest. "I have a working suit of armor in here."

Coulson pursed his lips. 

"Well." Tony shrugged. "It doesn't have all the power of the Mark VI, and the guidance system is more rudimentary than I'm used to, and the reaction time is much slower, and—"

"But it works," Bruce broke in. 

"Good." Agent Coulson turned to Bruce. "I suppose you don't have any gear to bring, Doctor."

Bruce shook his head. "I'm not even sure I should go. The last time I was in New York—"

"Yeah, we all saw the tape. We could use a little more of that on our side," Dean said. He held out his hand. "Good to see you again, agent." For a brief moment, Coulson considered leaving this Winchester behind; Dean was non-powered, not trained, and a demon target for reasons unknown. But he was also a better shot than every single SHIELD agent Coulson had ever worked with, save one. And that would have to be good enough for now.

Coulson shook hands with Dean, then looked over to Castiel, who stood silently behind him. The tee shirt he wore must have had slits cut in the back, because his wings were out and folded loosely behind his shoulders. 

"Feeling up for this?" he asked Cas. 

"I want these demons gone," Cas said. "I'll do whatever I can." 

Coulson nodded, then he turned his attention to Sam, who sat curled into an armchair in the corner, his fist under his chin. 

"Sam," Coulson said, "this needs saying: with your powers, your natural resistance to possession, your ability to bring the Hulk to heel, and your knowledge of the enemy, you are the best leader we have. Are you ready to take point in this fight?"

"Me?" Sam's hand dropped to his lap. "You can't be serious. I'm—"

"Already a pushy bastard anyway, so he may as well," Dean said. He whacked Sam's shoulder, his hand staying and kneading there for one moment before falling. "You got this, Sammy." His words were lightly spoken, off-hand, but Sam looked up at him with thankful eyes. 

Then that faded, and they hardened into something Coulson had seen before in the grainy, patriotic footage that SHIELD used in recruitment tapes. 

Sam stood. "According to Banner's intel, they're mobilizing demons on both sides of the divide. We should be prepared for things other than demons, too; we don't know what's going to crawl out of that hole. This Loki will open the portal tomorrow morning in Manhattan, midtown if the message was decoded correctly. We can't get there in time to stop it, but we can damn well—" He paused. "Missouri, what are you doing?"

Missouri looked up from her purse, which she was busy stuffing with her keys and granola bars. "I'm getting ready. We should probably get on the road soon, right?"

Dean crossed his arms over his chest. "You're going to stay here; this is too dangerous."

Missouri straightened and pierced him with a look. "Oh really? Thanks for making that clear! The whole 'demon army walking the earth' thing wasn't registering." She gave him a light smack upside his head. 

"Ow!" 

"I've faced down poltergeists and wraiths and Lord knows what else, and if you think I'm going to sit here crocheting socks while there's a war on, then you need to read your daddy's journal again, you got that?"

"Yes, ma'am," Dean muttered. No one else opened their mouth to argue.

"Good," Missouri said. "Now let me get my sweater."

______________________

An overcast morning in Central Park. Already the place was rife with joggers in lurid spandex and children scrabbling over the granite rocks. A man with one hand sold lukewarm bottles of spring water from a cooler. And a god dressed in his opera-best walked over the grass.

The tesseract was a live pulse in his hands, glowing ice blue as if it knew him and his intentions. Loki was rather pleased at the effect. If any of the humans stretched out on their picnic blankets paid him any heed, it was only a passing glance at the unearthly cube he held. No one seemed to notice when he placed the tesseract on a pleasing mound of clover and whispered to it, "Open the door, beloved." 

The ground cracked open. Grass singed and ignited. The smell of sulfur engulfed the meadow. People were screaming, Loki noted absently. The tesseract fell into the opening maw of the Pit.

"It's quite all right," he said, though no one could rightly hear him over the hiss and tear of the earth. He stepped back from the fissure on assured feet. "It will be over for you the soonest."

Already the first licks of black smoke were pouring out of Hell, swarming in angry twists and slithering down the open throats of the nearby humans. Black eyes blinked at Loki from all directions. 

"Crowley said this is your show," a former nanny said at Loki's elbow. 

"Yes." He nodded. "So it is." He breathed in deep, letting the sick scent of fire and death and clover wash over him. Demons shrieked at the sky. A day to remember, surely. "Let's bring some light to the darkness, shall we?"

[ ](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/439/33785)

______________________

" _Repeat, the helicarrier is under attack, repe— Rogue agents have—bzzt—all bases are—shhhht—_ "

Coulson flicked off his radio. "Sounds like we shouldn't expect any air support from SHIELD," he said. 

"Sounds like we shouldn't expect any support from anyone at all," Tony said darkly from the passenger seat. He tapped the small glass window between the cab and the SWAT-style benches in the back of the van. "You doing okay back there?"

Bruce gave a wan thumbs up. Missouri and Sam nodded. Dean and Cas, sitting close together on one side of the van, looked only at each other. Dean gave Cas's hand a quick squeeze that everyone else pretended not to notice.

The tunnel was impassable, so they took the George Washington Bridge, which was also jammed by the time Coulson guided the van through the maze of on-ramps to the lower level. The problem was that every car, truck, bus, and taxi was trying to leave the city at the same moment. Something was on fire on the Upper West Side, sending a plume of smoke high above the skyline. Drivers had abandoned their cars for the most part and were crossing the bridge on foot. It was strangely quiet. No one was talking. 

"What do you think, Sam?" Dean asked as they climbed out of the van and surveyed the scene across the river. 

Missouri watched a man trudge by wordlessly, half his face blackened with soot. "It's started. The park," she said. 

"We'll need to fly," Sam said. He squinted at the clouds and smoke in the sky. "Cas, you take Dean. Stark, can you carry Coulson?"

"I'd rather he didn't," Coulson said. Tony responded by dumping all his armor pieces in a pile on the asphalt and clipping on his sensor bracelets. 

"We don't all the time get what we want," he said. "Voice command alpha, assemble." The armor plates emitted a high-pitched whine. A few lights flickered on in blue. "Come on, we're on a deadline here." The plates lifted with magnetic force and clicked into place around his legs and arms. "Jarvis would be ashamed," Tony muttered as the faceplate dropped over his mouth. 

The constant flow of people running away from the city didn't even slow at the sight of Iron Man, but when Castiel stepped out of the back of the van, his white wings spread to catch the hot breeze, one passerby stopped and stared with narrowed eyes. 

"Heads up," Missouri said, pointing. "That one isn't human."

The man's eyes went ink black and he hissed in Cas's direction, "Mutant!" 

Sam surged forward, but Dean held him back with a hand on his arm. "Cas has this," he said. 

It didn't take long for Cas to prove Dean right. He used his wings to gain a height advantage over the snarling demon, then aimed a kick at its jaw that powered Cas through a backflip. The demon fell over the bridge's railing and into the river below. The human survivors nearby scurried away from the fight, but Sam ran to the railing and looked for the demon in vain.

"I could have exorcised it!" Sam shouted, turning back to Cas and the rest. "We could have saved the host." 

"Not that one." Missouri shook her head. "He was already dead. I could only hear the demon in him." 

"Sammy, we aren't going to save everyone today." Dean held him an arm's length. "You got to make peace with that. Okay?"

Sam didn't answer, still looking at the river far below. 

To everyone's surprise, it was Bruce who cleared his throat. "If we waste any more time, there won't be anyone left to save, Sam. I don't want to hurt innocent people; you know that. But we don't have the luxury of bringing every single demon to you for exorcism today." 

"There's just too many," Missouri added in a quiet voice. 

Sam collected himself, standing visibly straighter. "We need to know who's a civilian and who's possessed. I don't want to get caught in an ambush. Missouri, how many minds can you keep tabs on at one time?" 

Missouri smiled. "Enough. Get me somewhere with a good vantage point and I'll get it done." 

"Everyone take these." Coulson held out a fistful of earpieces. "We need to stay in contact." Everyone but Bruce grabbed one; the Hulk wouldn't listen anyway.

"Shouldn't you be suiting up?" Dean asked him. Before Bruce could answer, a low-pitched rumble shook the bridge, causing everyone to look to the sky. A huge serpentine shape blotted out the sun, flying on leathery wings. It dipped low between the bridge's towers, jaws open to reveal needle-teeth the size of trees. The survivors on the bridge started screaming and running for cover. 

"The fuck is that?" Dean whispered.

"Beezlebub, prince of flies," Tony said like he was commenting on the weather. At everyone's stares, he added, "Oh come on, am I the only one who read up on Hellspawn for this?" 

"Bruce?" Sam said as the dragon-like creature advanced. "We need you to let the Other Guy out."

"Promise not to let him get carried away, Sam," Bruce said, shuffling forward in his baggy borrowed jeans and shirt. He grinned over his shoulder at them. "He'll listen to you."

Sam nodded, eyes still on Beezlebub. "Keep that thing out of our way and you've got yourself a deal."

He changed right in front of their eyes, one moment small and stooped, the next massive and green and screeching like an animal. Dean ducked for cover behind a stalled Jeep while the Hulk pounded Beezlebub's hooked nose into the concrete. 

Sam lifted Missouri in his arms and rose a few feet above the ground. "To the Pit. Now."

______________________

Missouri looked down at the world rushing by under her feet. Flying didn't agree with her; it was cold and disorienting and made her motion-sick. She shouted to Sam over the wind, "There, put me down there," pointing to the jagged rooftop of the CNN building. A few blocks to the north, the gaping mouth of Hell was still smouldering, disgorging demons in thick black clouds.

Sam levitated down with her, setting her on her feet. "Stay here no matter what happens," he said. "You'll be safe. Keep us updated on where the demons are."

Missouri gave him a fond smile. "You're a good boy, Sam. Always were." 

Sam seemed embarrassed by this, his cheeks pinking. "Uh." 

Missouri tipped her head toward the streets. "Go. Save some people." 

He hesitated, and Missouri worried that he'd felt some part of what she was feeling; damn, but that boy was good. "Go on!" She made a shooing motion with her hands. "I'll be fine!"

Sam gave her a solemn nod, stepped off the edge of the roof, and took off. Missouri watched him fly north toward the portal, disappearing into the smoke. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and listened. 

After a moment, she pressed the small earpiece in her left ear. "There's a bunch of humans hunkered down in the subway station. Some demons are heading that way. There's also a big knot of black-eyes on 59th moving towards the East River. They're only thinking about blood; that can't be good." 

" _I've got them_ ," Tony Stark's robotic-tinged voice answered. " _Dropping Coulson off at the station. Loki's nearby._ "

"No, he's not," Missouri said. "It's a mirage. Ignore it, he's trying to distract you."

" _Dean, Cas, get those people in the subway tunnels locked down_ ," Sam ordered. Affirmatives and explosions traded back and forth through the comm. Missouri listened. 

And waited.

______________________

Dean and Castiel touched down in the chaotic crush of people in Columbus Circle. Parkgoers were streaming past, some screaming, some with pitch-black eyes, some being chased down by tendrils of smoke. A line of police cars sat in a skewed line in the middle of the street, lights flashing uselessly.

"Hey!" Dean shouted to one of the police officers. The guy regarded him warily, eyes jumping from the blade in Dean's hand to Cas's wings. "Who's in charge of the snow salt in this town?" Dean asked.

"Huh?" 

"The salt! The stuff you throw on the sidewalks in the winter! Department of Sanitation?" 

Another cop behind the first one nodded. 

"Call Sanitation and have them load up their winter stores," Dean said. "Tell them to dump salt in lines—unbroken lines, you get me?—around the schools and the hospitals. Start herding people into those locations. These fancy buildings," he nodded at the condos lining Central Park West, "they should have salt in storage too. Bring as many bags as you can find here and make a line in front of the subway station, all right?"

"Wha—? What are you talking about?" the police officer sputtered. "That's crazy! Why should I take orders from some nutjob?" 

A woman wearing nurse's scrubs and black eyes flew into Dean, nearly knocking him off his feet. Dean shouldered the demon off and buried Ruby's knife into her stomach. While she was doubled over, Castiel grabbed her by the arms and held her still. Dean pulled the knife out of her and slashed her throat open. She collapsed on the ground with a crackle of wasted energy.

Dean turned back to the policemen, breathing heavily. "Well?" 

The first officer sprang into action. "Get Sanitation on the line, tell them to get that salt to the nearest schools and hospitals," he told a nearby squad. "I want all the salt stores from this block moved to the 59th Street entrance," he pointed to another. "Come on, move it, move!" 

Dean turned back to Cas and pulled a fistful of rosaries from his coat pocket. "I'm going to make that water a little more holy," he said, nodding at the fountains in the middle of the roundabout. 

Coulson materialized from the crowd, the blaster he'd taken from Stark Industries resting casually on his shoulder. He adjusted his sunglasses. "I'll cover you."

"Did Iron Man just drop you off? I would have killed to see that," Dean said. 

"Focus on the job, please." Coulson fired at an advancing contingent of demons, freeing up a cluster of people who had been trapped inside an overturned bus. "Castiel, get in the air and tell us if you can see any other civilians pinned down."

"All right." Castiel flapped his wings to gain some altitude. "Dean. Be careful."

Dean stabbed another demon and wiped his blade on its fallen body. He flashed a grin up at Cas. "You too, featherhead."

______________________

"Are you the one spoiling my army's secrets?" a cold voice intoned behind Missouri.

Missouri opened her eyes and turned. "Loki. You're really pushing this whole 'trickster' thing, aren't you?" She took him in, all towering and elegant in his bronze helm and battle leathers. 

He tilted his head and regarded her through amused eyes. "My reputation precedes me. I'm afraid I have no such advantage over you. And you are?"

"Missouri Moseley, licensed psychic."

"Oh, a fortune-teller. This _is_ exciting." Loki strode around her, looking her up and down as if she was a museum piece. "Crowley's demons really must have outdone themselves, if this is the best the earth can manage: a middle-aged mother figure suffering under the delusion that her death will have meaning if she can just protect those precious Winchester boys a few more minutes." Loki huffed a laugh. "It's rather more pathetic than I was prepared for."

"Oh sweetie," Missouri sighed. "I'm not the one who's destroying an entire planet just because daddy loves big brother more." 

Loki's eyes narrowed. "You do not know of what you speak," he said.

"I'm speaking about you, the big man with a big stick." She advanced, hands on her hips, head canted at the scepter he held. "I can see right into your head, you know. You're a child, Loki, a little boy who can't stand to hear the word No." Though a good foot shorter, Missouri tipped her head back and stood with Loki, toe-to-toe. "So why don't you pack up your toys and go home? Because that's the only thing you're going to hear from us today." 

Loki paled, a hand coming up to cover his bloodless lips. He turned with shaking shoulders. The laugh that escaped through his fingers sent a chill down Missouri's spine.

He spun back to face her with a manic grin. "Did you really think this would work?" he asked. "Did you _really_ think you could save the day with your words?" Spittle flecked at the corners of his mouth. "This day will end in blood and pain," he advanced a step with each word, and Missouri scrambled backwards, "and tortured screams and nothing else. There is _nothing_ you can tell me about my black heart that I haven't already discovered! I am a god! You are a mortal whose only party trick is pretending to know my thoughts!"

"And precog," Missouri said softly. She took one more step back. 

"What?" Loki snarled, stepping closer. 

"On a good day," Missouri said, "precognition." She glanced up to the sky. Beezlebub swooped by with the Hulk clinging to its leathered skin. It crashed into the faceted tower of the Hearst building one block to the south with a scream. The glass and girders shattered like diamonds, falling in slow sunbursts towards the CNN rooftop where Loki and Missouri stood. 

Missouri grabbed the scepter from Loki's nerveless fingers and took one more step backward off the edge of the roof. She caught one last glimpse of Loki, glinting gold and green as he was showered with tons of rubble. 

Strong arms grabbed her mid-air. Castiel's wings beat furiously. "Why didn't you warn me?" he shouted in her ear. 

"Wanted a little piece of drama for myself, I suppose," she said, clutching the spear in her arms. "Plus I knew you'd be there."

______________________

Sam felt more than saw the skyscraper topple over; he briefly concentrated on the Hulk's green-hot emotions, pulsing a short distance away. "Please be okay," he whispered. A wordless roar of victory was his answer. Sam turned back to the Pit, which was cracked open almost a thousand yards wide. Demon smoke and scaled creatures and flickering things he didn't even recognize were still crawling out of it.

Iron Man touched down nearby, blasting as many hell-beasts as he could with his repulsors. "Plan? Do we have a plan?" he called. "Because I'm already down to 40% power." 

Sam gestured at a host, exorcising it in an instant. "We can fry all the demons we like, but it won't make a damn bit of difference if we don't close the portal," he said. 

"I'd take containment at this point!" Tony said, his voice buzzing through his helmet. 

"Containment I can do." Sam touched a fingertip to his earpiece. "Coulson, are the subway tunnels safe?" 

" _Dean and I have it handled_ ," he answered. In the background, Sam could hear gunshots and Dean shouting. 

"Keep everyone belowground," Sam said before signing off. He floated off the grass, his hands raised, his eyes sliding shut in concentration. Behind him, girders from the fallen buildings and snapped tree trunks rose in the air. 

"Is this going to be a really weird psychic moment?" Tony said. 

"Just keep them off my back for three more minutes," Sam said. He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead as he swung the debris into place with his telekinesis. This was the biggest weight he'd ever lifted, and it hurt his head as much as it would have pained his shoulders. 

The girders and wood stood on their ends like giant penknives. Sam drove them into the ground around the edges of the Pit. They moved in bold lines, carving out a pattern in the scorched earth: five lines crossing in the dirt, a circle surrounding them, four delicate symbols etched inside. 

"You're drawing a devil's trap?" Tony whistled, a strange sound through his faceplate. "A very cool, weird psychic moment." 

"Thanks," Sam panted, connecting the last part of the circle. Inside, the trapped demon smoke slammed against the invisible barrier, bubbled in the air, and screeched in hellish pain. "Make sure nothing breaks those lines."

"You got it, kid." Tony blasted another demon in the face. 

Sam let himself fall back to earth, his feet touching the ground smoothly. If they could just beat back the demons and keep the trap intact, maybe it wouldn't be so—

An invisible hand picked him up and slammed him into a mound of rocks that jutted through the rolling parkland. The earpiece in his ear buzzed and clicked, Tony's voice coming in bursts of broken sound, but Sam couldn't make it out. He grunted and tried to pick himself up, but he was held down by a power that rivaled his own telekinesis. 

"Sam." A figure stood over him, well-dressed and out of place in the smoke and the screaming. His voice was coolly British. "I've been waiting a long time for this."

"You must be Crowley," Sam breathed. 

"Charmed." Crowley gave a small gesture, and Sam was tossed through the air. The last thing he saw before he blacked out was the sidewalk rushing up to meet him.

______________________

Tony's jerry-rigged tracking system stopped tabulating how far Sam had been thrown after 2000 yards. Figured. He turned back to face Crowley, grimacing under the protection of his helmet.

"That wasn't very nice," he said, firing his left-hand repulsor at maximum power. The beam of light passed within inches of Crowley's coat sleeve; he'd either sidestepped really neatly, or could move faster than an eyeblink. 

_Power level thirty-seven percent_ , the automated and all-wrong American voice intoned inside Tony's helmet. So not helping. Jarvis would have made a suggestion on how to proceed, but this was no Jarvis-level AI. 

"Mr. Stark, is it?" Crowley smiled. "Oh, how I wish we could be meeting in better circumstances. You're just the kind of human I admire most."

"Well, that makes me want to take a long shower." Tony flicked through his eye-motion menus, diverting as much firepower as he could spare to the uni-beam. 

_Charging uni-beam, seventy-three seconds to full capacity._

Nothing to do but stall, then. "So what should I call you? Satan? Lord of all Evil?" 

"Oh, I'm not Satan." Crowley toed his way towards the perimeter of the devil's trap; Tony moved to block his way. "Lucifer isn't coming to this party."

"Lucifer's a thing? Get out of town." The sarcasm in Tony's voice belied the cold trickle of sweat that ran down his neck and into the lining of the suit.

Crowley gave a magnanimous shrug. "You should be thanking me for that, you know. He was going to kill everything: humans, demons, angels, the bits in between. I just want to take a cut. A few warm bodies for me and mine. The lesser of two evils." He grinned coldly. "That's something you're very familiar with, isn't it?"

_Charging, forty-six seconds to full capacity._

"One of these days I'll live that down," Tony said. 

"Perhaps you'll die trying."

_Charging, thirty—_

Crowley stepped forward, too fast to follow even with the tracking program, and clawed his fingers between two plates of armor covering Tony's ribcage. Tony heard the metal crunching under the demon's grasp, collapsing sharply against his chest. The AI's voice shorted out. The helmet's internal schematics went dark, leaving Tony completely blind. The suit creaked around him, and Crowley's voice came through as a muffled hiss. 

"Your friend, the robot, he's gone to the big mainframe in the sky, hasn't he?" Crowley asked. "Sad. All that money and you couldn't even _make_ someone who would be with you at the end."

Tony thought briefly of Pepper and Happy and Rhodey: all the people he'd pushed away during his fight for Registration. A static crackle fizzed through the armor, locking his limbs in place. The arc reactor ached in his chest. Visuals flickered on just enough for Tony to see Crowley reaching for his faceplate. Then something very big and very green overshadowed them, causing Crowley to gaze upward in surprise. 

" **Leave** ," the Hulk said, picking up the demon and flinging him far away like he weighed nothing. 

Tony stumbled and fell back on the grass. He gasped for air, prying off the cracked chest plate and torso segments. The helmet was pretty useless, so he took that off too. The Hulk snuffled at him with his huge nostrils. 

"Thanks, bud," Tony managed to say. 

" **Still fight**?" the Hulk rumbled. 

The gauntlets on Tony's arms were working; he tested them with a few flicks of his wrist, and the repulsors gave a hearty whirr. The propulsion systems were another story. He couldn't get a drop of boost from his legs. "I'm grounded, but I can keep going. Where's the demon who was choking me out?"

The Hulk squinted into the distance. " **The river** ," he said. " **Sam too**." 

Tony's eyes widened a little bit; he hadn't expected the Hulk to remember a name, let alone use it. Maybe he could be trained after all. 

"We need to hold down the fort." He stood shakily, using the Hulk's huge wrist to support his weight as he gained his feet. He gave a nod to the devil's trap. "Think you can take anything that gets close?" The Hulk grinned and bounded into the fray with one massive leap.

______________________

Sam spat the taste of ash out of his mouth. His ears were ringing, but he sensed an undercurrent of screams, the howl of demons, the cracking of skyscrapers. It was all a low buzz in the back of his head. He opened his eyes and saw where his telekinesis had brought him, still half-dazed from Crowley's blow. A crowd of humanity surged against him, tourists and businessmen and teenage girls in platform shoes all streaming around him. A rock in a river. An island in an ocean.

There was blood at the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. 

Sam couldn't push his way through all those people, so he drifted high into the air above their heads. Some looked at him in sheer terror; he could feel their fear like iron in the back of his throat. 

"I'm not one of them," he told a woman who had frozen beneath him. "Go. Run." 

She ran. Sam flew in the opposite direction. 

Crowley was at the foot of a bridge, embedded in a hole in the asphalt. As Sam got closer, Crowley picked himself up and brushed himself off as nonchalantly as a CEO entering a meeting. His eyes found Sam hovering in the air. 

"You made some powerful friends," he said. "Powerful enemies, too."

The waves of smugness and self-satisfaction rolled off Crowley in a way that Sam could almost smell. "Is this the part where you offer me a piece of the action?" Sam said. 

Crowley sighed, put-upon. "You psychics are no fun. Whatever happened to the element of surprise?" 

"You can't surprise me, Crowley. You think there's something more to you, but you're nothing special. You're just cruelty in a nice coat."

"Don't neglect the shoes," Crowley said with a hurt expression. His face then descended into a mask of rage, and he cut the air with his arm, sending a wave of demonic telekinesis towards Sam. 

Sam blocked it out of instinct, hands flying up as if they alone would protect him. The air in front of him shimmered and shook with the impact of Crowley's blow before it dissipated. Sam felt his power forming a protective barrier around him, a sphere that could keep him safe. 

Crowley's mouth set at an even angrier angle. Sam cracked his neck. "You're right," he said. "Nice shoes." And he blasted Crowley with all the force he could muster. 

Bloomingdale's got a new skylight.

______________________

Castiel set Missouri on her feet, scanning the wrecked cars and buses on the street for some sign of Dean. He found Coulson first by the sound of his blaster. A high-pitched whine announced him before a cluster of black-eyed demons exploded into very small pieces.

Missouri winced and wiped blood from her cheek. "Watch it, agent man."

"Sorry. The power settings are tricky." Coulson stepped out from behind an overturned bus and nodded to the spear she held in her hands. "What's that?"

"Loki's," Cas said. "She says it can close the Pit."

"I saw it in a vision," Missouri said. "They haven't been wrong yet."

Dean ducked into view behind Coulson. He picked off a few more demons on their six with his glock. "Is that a plan I hear?" he shouted. 

"In your vision, how exactly did—?" Coulson fell silent and pressed his hand to his earpiece. Castiel frowned; he could hear nothing on his own comm. "It's the SHIELD frequency," Coulson said. "I've been monitoring it in case— Oh." He swallowed, staring off to the east. 

"What?" Dean yelled. Somewhere nearby, an explosion rocked through a building. Coulson remained stock still, not blinking an eye. 

"Agent Coulson!" Castiel called over the chaos. "What are they saying?"

Missouri's eyes went wide and she turned to stare in the same direction. "They're falling from the sky," she said. 

Coulson touched his earpiece again. "Sam! How fast can you get downtown?"

Castiel listened to his own earpiece as Sam answered, his voice crackling over the line. " _I've got Crowley in a devil's trap at fifty-ninth and third. I just need to—_ "

"Leave him! Demons have overrun the helicarrier. It's going to crash."

" _Wha—? Now!?_ " 

Coulson didn't dignify that with a response. Sam stuttered over the line, " _I'm on my way._ "

" _Hey guys?_ " Iron Man's voice came over the airwaves, except it was strangely devoid of his mechanical filter. "Uh, no pressure or anything but the Hulk and I could use a hand here at the Pit." A loud roar and a jarring thump of flesh on flesh echoed in the background. 

Cas acted without thinking. He took the spear from Missouri and spiraled high into the sky. From this height, he could see the giant plume of demon smoke building above the Pit like a black atom-bomb cloud. 

They needed someone in the Pit to destroy the key and close the door. But Castiel didn't see Iron Man in the air, and Sam had his hands full with the helicarrier. That left him as their last flyer. 

"Cas, wait!" He could barely hear Dean's voice over the howling of the demons' smoke trails. He flew into the storm clouds, diving and weaving to avoid the sulfuric smell. He didn't look back.

______________________

At first Tony thought it was a demon pushing him around with its telekinetic powers, but when the hot, sharp, invisible teeth closed over his un-armored upper arm, he started rethinking that hypothesis.

He shouted in surprise. The teeth sunk deeper, leaving red gashes along his skin. Tony shook his arm and felt a heavy weight on it. "Hulk!" 

The Hulk was there in an instant like a big green guardian angel. His massive hands closed around something Tony couldn't see and tore it away from Tony's arm. " **Black dog** ," he snarled. Whatever it was yelped when the Hulk tossed it away. 

"You can see them?" Tony asked, whirling in a circle, his repulsor ready. "How many?"

The Hulk looked around the flattened field. " **Lots**." 

"Great," Tony said just as another invisible ton of slavering hell-beast slammed into his chest, tearing with teeth and claws. From his new position flat on his back, he saw huge claw marks scratching at the furrows Sam had drawn into the dirt. Tony reached frantically for a nearby stone and hurled it in the direction of the scratches. He got a feral snarl, but the scratching stopped. 

"Come on, you son of a bitch," he said under his breath. "Come get me." 

The teeth were no less sharp for being unseen.

______________________

_That's the Brooklyn Bridge_ , Sam thought as his feet hit the concrete. He'd seen it in movies and photographs, sure, but this was surreal, to see it in real life for the first time while a mile-long fiery chunk of SHIELD-stamped metal hurtled from the sky above it.

The helicarrier's engines were attempting to keep it aloft, but it was falling too fast at too steep an angle. At this rate, it was going to plow nose-first into City Hall's dome and dig a furrow straight across Manhattan. 

The airship's shadow fell across Sam. He tuned out the fear from the people swarming in a million unsafe directions. He took a deep breath and raised his hand.

______________________

Castiel swooped past Iron Man and the Hulk in a blur. They seemed to be struggling, Stark in only half his armor and Hulk swinging at thin air, but Cas didn't have time to help them. Against all his instincts, he flew straight down into the Pit, through the clouds of stinking sulfur and blasts of hot air. His wings folded tight against his back, turning him into a sleek missile.

"How will I know the tesseract?" he shouted, hoping his earpiece could pick it up. 

Coulson answered: " _It's a cube, smaller than a breadbox. It will glow blue._ " 

Castiel blinked his eyes open. They were watering from the heat. The Pit seemed to go on forever, and Cas wondered how he could ever find such a small thing in a place so deep. His eyes scanned the scorched earth around him, the burnt ridges of earthen walls that glowed with hellfire. Several ledges jutted out from the rocks. Castiel dodged one that appeared in his flight path, then barrel-rolled away from a hissing stream of smoke that was struggling toward the light. 

He had to keep going.

______________________

Tony coughed up a few tablespoons of blood into the burned grass, fingers scrabbling for the comm in his ear. "Anyone hear me?" he croaked into the earpiece. Behind him, the Hulk was wrestling the invisible attacker to the ground. Tony pressed a palm to his bleeding stomach, breathing hard to stay conscious.

A hand closed over his shoulder and turned him onto his back. Tony blinked up at Dean's grim face. "Black dogs," he managed to say. 

"Yeah, I know them." Dean shucked his plaid overshirt and pressed it to the worst of the bleeding on Tony's torso. "Don't move."

______________________

The sun was a faint pinprick above Cas's head. Everything else was black and burning and blistering. He couldn't breathe.

He saw something ahead, a light in the darkness. Was it blue? Were his eyes playing tricks on him? 

No, that had to be it: a shining blue cube embedded in the rocky ledge like crystal in a cave. Just a few more yards and Cas could touch it.

" _Cas!_ " Dean's tinny voice barked into his ear. " _Get out of there!_ "

"I see it," Cas said. It sounded so faint in the rush of Hell. He flew faster, spear outstretched in his hand. "I'm almost—"

Something slammed into him sideways with the force of a truck, smashing him against the wall and plastering him to a ledge painfully close to the tesseract. Loki's spear fell; Castiel couldn't see where. He looked around wildly for the demon that was pinning him down, but he saw nothing. 

" _Hellhounds!_ " Dean's wild shout came through his earpiece. " _You can't see them! They're invisible, they—_ "

Castiel felt sharp claws tear into his flesh from shoulder to hip. He screamed, fighting underneath a heavy weight that refused to budge. His shirt, now shredded, stuck to his skin wetly. Hot, stinking breath puffed over his face. Cas's wings flapped in defense, beating at the hound above him. That seemed only to annoy the animal. It growled and lunged, and Cas only saved his neck from being snapped in half by blocking with his forearm. The hound's teeth sank into his skin, gnawing on the bones beneath. Blood spattered into Cas's eyes. 

" _Cas!_ " the voice in his ear crackled. 

"It's eating me," Castiel gasped. "Oh god, Dean—"

" _Hold on. I'm coming to get you. Just hold on._ " Dean sounded so sure, so absolutely certain that he could climb into Hell in five minutes flat and save Cas. It made Cas's heart clench. 

"I'm sorry," he said. The hellhound released its hold on his arm for a moment, and Castiel knew this was it. He couldn't even lift his wings, let alone his savaged arm. Death had always seemed so frightening, but he found he wasn't scared. He only regretted he hadn't smashed the cube before being torn to shreds. 

His eyes drifted shut. He could hear Dean's voice in his head still. That was nice; it was almost like he wasn't alone. 

"Get the **fuck** off of him!" 

That wasn't Dean. Who—?

Castiel opened his eyes in time to see a man in an eyepatch towering over him, his ebony skin caked in ash and dirt, the golden spear clutched in his fists. 

He drove the spear towards Castiel's ribcage, and for a moment, Cas was convinced the spear would pass through empty air and impale him. But the hellhound above him yelped in pain, and a noxious blood oozed from where the spear's tip disappeared into nothingness. The air flickered like a bad video out of synch, and the shape of a huge black dog coalesced above Castiel. The hound toppled to the side, the spear still sticking from its back. 

Cas draped a bloody wing across his middle and stared up at the man in the eye patch. 

"Who—?"

"Nick Fury, Director of SHIELD. I've clawed my way out of Hell and I am _not_ stopping now," he said.

______________________

The helicarrier loomed closer. Sam could feel the hot weight of it at the ends of his fingertips, fast and falling faster. He pushed back with his telekinesis. Metal screeched and whined, but the descent did not slow. Sam lifted both arms in the air like an orchestra conductor and thought of the helicarrier as a stubborn cellar door that he needed to push open from the inside. He shoved at it, his muscles straining under their imagined struggle, sweat running down his face. His boots slipped a few inches backward on the asphalt. He licked his lips and tasted iron; his nose was bleeding.

His body screamed to stop, but the city was screaming louder. Sam could hear them, the eight million people hoping to be saved. He pushed. And the helicarrier ground to a halt. It stayed suspended above the Brooklyn Bridge, its hull nearly brushing the American flag that flew at the bridge's summit. Sam panted for air, then walked forward. One step, then two, hands still in the air to keep the ship steady. Each time it felt like his feet were encased in cement. Some of the people on the street had stopped and were staring up at the airship. 

" _Sammy!_ " Dean's voice came from Sam's earpiece, panicked and loud. " _We need you!_ "

"Little busy," Sam grunted. He took a step onto the ramp that led to the bridge's concourse. He could see the river below, sparkling gray. 

" _Now, Sam!_ "

"Dean, I can either drop the helicarrier and kill a whole lot of people, or I can ignore you. Which do you want?" Just a little further and he could set it in the water. It might not float, not with that gaping hole in its hull, but it was better than nothing.

The comm was silent. Sam concentrated on turning the ship ninety degrees. "Dean?" It occurred to him that Dean was really scared, and that worried Sam more than anything.

" _Do what you got to do_ ," Dean said. Now he sounded strangely calm, but Sam couldn't detect why, not with everything else jamming its way into his skull.

Sam lowered his hands and guided the helicarrier over the river. "Be careful," was all he could say before the comm fizzed into static.

[](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/439/36347)

______________________

Stark was losing too much blood. Dean placed Tony's hands over the makeshift compress on his stomach and said, "Keep up the pressure. And take this." He unsheathed the demon-killing knife from his hip and wrapped Stark's fingers around the bone hilt. "Anything gets near you, stab it."

Tony nodded. His eyelids drooped. 

Dean stood and turned to find the Hulk breathing like a locomotive behind him. Green blood was trickling from his nose. He looked down at Dean, then over at where Stark lay bleeding on the ground. The Hulk moved toward him, but Dean blocked his path. 

"I need your help. We've got to—" 

The Hulk ignored him, shoving past Dean with the single-minded purpose of a freight train. Dean stumbled, but caught himself and rounded on the Hulk again. 

"Hey! I know Sammy ain't here to wrangle you, but you better listen up or else Iron Man is going to die," he shouted at the Hulk's broad back. 

He turned, glowing green eyes peering down at Dean. " **Help him**?" he asked, brushing his massive hand gently over Stark's bloodied leg. Tony stared up at him with glassy eyes. 

Dean nodded. "Yeah. We can help him. But you have to listen to me. Okay?"

The Hulk nodded, and Dean turned toward the smoking hole in the ground.

______________________

Nick Fury stuck out a gloved hand, and Cas took it. He groaned in pain as he was hauled to his feet; this was so much worse than being shot. He was wounded in his arm, shoulder, his entire flank, and he could barely move without hot pain wracking every inch of him.

"What are you?" Fury asked. "SWORD? X-Factor? UNIT?" 

"I'm from Oregon," Cas said.

"Got a name?" 

"Castiel," Cas managed before stumbling against the stone wall and holding onto it for support. "The tesseract. We have to smash it with the spear," he gasped, pointing to the cube on a distant ledge. 

"Easier than killing another hound." Fury twisted the spear free from the carcass with a sickening, meaty sound. "So what happens? All the demons bite it once the tesseract is destroyed?"

Castiel shrugged helplessly, staring up at the pinprick of sky above him. "Not exactly." 

Fury regarded him with enough steely intensity with his good eye to make up for the other. "The door's going to close on us, isn't it? And I'm betting you're in no shape to fly us out of here." Cas didn't answer. Fury shook his head with a bitter laugh. "It's not the end I imagined."

"Not by a long shot," Cas agreed. 

"Well. I'll be damned if I'm going to waste my last breath complaining. You got us this far; I'll finish it," Fury said, hefting the spear in his hands. He leaped to the neighboring ledge, inching closer to the tesseract along a narrow shelf of rock. 

Castiel's legs went out from under him, and he slid down the wall next to the dead hellhound. He lifted a shaking hand to his earpiece. "Dean?"

The earpiece only buzzed with static. 

"Dean, I'm here," he said. "Can you hear me?" 

No reply. Either Cas's earpiece had finally given up the ghost, or Dean was— No. Dean was fine. He was safe. In just a few moments, everyone up there would be safe. 

"We're closing the Pit," Cas said, hoping someone out there was listening. "It's over." He heard a loud crack of metal against glass, and through the haze of pain and smoke, Cas saw Fury bringing the butt of the spear down on the tesseract again and again. It cracked into a thousand glittering shards that threw off swirls of light. The light snaked upwards, twisting and binding into itself around the mouth of the Pit. The pinprick became smaller and smaller. 

"Dean—" Castiel considered saying something else for a brief moment. But Dean didn't need to hear those words now. It didn't matter. Cas was done. 

He laid back against the searing rock and closed his eyes. 

"Hey, Castiel," Nick Fury's voice called. Cas furrowed his brow, wishing that his last moments could be spent in relative peace. Not that he wasn't grateful to the man, but couldn't he leave well enough alone?

"What?" Cas mumbled through a mouthful of blood. 

"You're going to want to see this." 

Castiel blinked his eyes open to see Fury back at his side and pointing skyward. Cas's eyes followed, first finding the slowly diminishing blue dot of the outside world. And then seeing the bigger swath of green moving through the black smoke. 

"Oh my god." Castiel's eyes went wide. 

" **Hot** ," the Hulk's voice echoed through the Pit. 

"I told you to hang on!" Dean shouted from his place on the Hulk's back, his arms wrapped around that thick green neck. The Hulk climbed like a huge squirrel down the walls, digging his fingers into the smoking rock to create handholds by brute strength. By the time they reached Castiel's ledge, the opening above had almost disappeared. 

Dean swung down and picked Cas up like he weighed nothing. "Let's get you out of here," Dean said. "Uh, and your pirate friend too?" He grimaced at Nick Fury. 

"Hilarious. Mind telling me how you got the goddamn Hulk to give you a ride?" Fury returned. 

"Escape first," Cas said. "Explain later."

" **Angel's right** ," Hulk put in, and gathered them all up in his hands like they were errant toys. 

"Hang on," was Dean's only advice to Fury. He did the hanging on for Castiel. The Hulk leaped from the ledge with enough force to send it, broken into pieces, towards the bottom of Hell. They rocketed toward the opening, but Cas could see it was too late. The portal was only a few feet across now. They would be trapped forever. 

The Hulk roared his displeasure and, clasping all three men to his chest with one arm, hooked his fingers into the tiny opening and forced his way through. Dirt showered down over their heads and the world tipped sideways. 

[](http://triedunture.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/439/36501)

Cas gulped in huge lungfuls of clean, cool air. His chest hurt. He was laying on a bed of prickly grass. He was alive. Everything hurt, but he was alive.

He opened his eyes. He was covered in blood, but somehow not bleeding. The earth caved into itself somewhere on his right, closing the portal for good. Everyone gathered around him: Fury, the Hulk, Coulson, Sam, Missouri. Dean. Dean was shouting something through several layers of cotton. It took a moment to understand what he was talking about.

"Sam's holding you together with his powers, okay? Don't try to move, we—"

"I'm fine," Cas said. "We're fine." He laughed, his wings twitching to get the Hell-stink out. "I think we saved the world." He lifted a bloodied hand to Dean's face, and a gash at his temple closed under Cas's touch. 

Dean swallowed, his shaking hand coming up to hold Cas's against his cheek. "Stark is fading fast. Sam can't hold him together much longer. Can you—?" Dean said. The Hulk loomed behind him, already reaching one huge hand toward Castiel. "Hey, Tiny, be careful!" Dean snapped, swatting his hand away. 

"No, it's all right. Hulk, here. Take it." Cas lifted his palm, where his blood was pooled, thick and red. The Hulk glanced at Dean as if in question, then carefully dipped one over-large fingertip into Cas's blood. 

Castiel couldn't see very well from where he was stretched out on the grass; everyone blocked his view. But he heard Tony's loud gasp and the Hulk's faint rumble of contentment. Their small group gave a collective sigh of relief. Missouri even cheered. 

"Hey," Cas said, smiling up at Dean. "It's a good thing someone thought to protect the hospitals. I think I might need one."

"I've got you," Dean said. He gripped both of Cas's hands in his, getting them both tacky with drying blood. "We're going to get you fixed up."

"I know," Cas said. "I'd like to kiss you, if that's all right." 

Dean huffed a laugh, two tears tracking down his face, leaving twin trails in the ash that coated his cheeks. "Better let me do the heavy lifting," he said, and leaned down. He kissed Cas, and kissed him again. Cas wasn't sure how the others reacted; he was too busy slipping into unconsciousness.

______________________

Crowley paced the edge of his trap for the twenty-seventh time. He was stuck on a deserted street with only the flickering street lights for company. The dust has settled and the city was not actually burning to the ground, which could only mean Loki's attack had failed.

Oh well, Crowley thought. It had been a long shot anyway, but at least he'd made the effort instead of sulking about the Cage like _some_ people. There was always next year, or next millennia. 

A black unmarked van rumbled through the empty streets, mounting the sidewalk when the rubble and stalled cars made the going impassable. Crowley lifted his gaze to watch the driver behind the windscreen, all dark sunglasses and inscrutable features. Fury was in the passenger seat. 

"Bugger," Crowley muttered.

"Mr. Crowley," Fury said as he climbed from the van. 

"Director." 

Crowley didn't struggle when they backed up the van into the devil's trap and ushered him inside. There was nowhere else to go, after all, and it was pointless to pretend otherwise. Two things were waiting for him inside that van: another devil's trap, this time on the ceiling, and Loki, who was looking rather the worse for wear. He was slumped in the far corner, covered in blood and bruises and dust, his wrists wrapped in manacles. A muzzle of some kind was fitted over his mouth. He looked up at Crowley's entrance, his eyes wet and wide.

"Oh, darling," Crowley murmured. "What have they done to you?" He slid onto the bench seat across from Loki, rubbing his own jaw in sympathy. 

"We haven't even started yet," Fury said. "You messed up, Crowley. You, Loki, and Ruby are the beginning of our new collection. SHIELD is going to learn a lot from you, one way or another."

Crowley cocked an eyebrow at him. "Have you told your high-minded pets that you're making such threats, Director?"

"They're not threats." Fury slammed the door shut.

______________________

"Boss, what he said about the others—" Coulson said as Fury slid back into the passenger seat.

"I have just been disgorged body and soul from Hell itself, agent. Can you stop harping on this long enough for me to get my bearings?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but this opportunity might not come again. We should put the wheels in motion." 

Fury sighed and motioned for Coulson to drive. He did, bumping slowly down the warzone streets. "You really aren't going to let this go, are you?"

"Let me pay a visit to Stark Tower after we drop off the trash." Coulson tipped his head to indicate the two prisoners in the back. "The team will be there for a couple of nights, at least. Stark wouldn't take no for an answer."

"If I authorize this and it blows up in your face, don't come crying to me," Fury said.

"Wouldn't think of it, boss."

______________________

Dean opened the door in the middle of Coulson's ninth knock. "How did you get up here? This place is supposed to be secure."

Coulson pocketed his sunglasses and gave Dean a raised-eyebrow glance that said _Oh  
please_ , slipping past him into the studio suite. 

"Agent Coulson is here to see you," Jarvis' voice chimed in belatedly. Dean rolled his eyes. Stark still had a lot of work to do on him, obviously. 

"Perhaps you'd like to put on some pants?" Coulson gestured with the folders he held in his hands. Dean tightened the belt of his bathrobe more securely. Clothes had been the least of his concerns for the past two days. He and Cas hadn't even left the room, ever since Cas had been released from the hospital and Stark had offered one of his Tower apartments for Cas's recuperation. 

"Little busy right now." In the ensuite bathroom, the shower squeaked to a halt. He could hear Cas's footsteps on the tile. "Why don't you come back, let's see, the day after never?"

Dean tried not to growl when Coulson took a seat at the edge of the bed and fanned his folders on the sheets beside him. "So what's the plan, Dean?" he asked. "Are you and Sam going to gas up your car and ride off into the sunset? Keep hunting monsters until you get too old or too broken-down to do it any more?"

Dean crossed his arms over his chest and frowned at the carpet under his toes. He kept his mouth shut. But Coulson must have gone to Agent School for interpreting angry silences, because he said, "Ah. You're still trying to think of a way to bring Castiel along for the ride. A permanent place in the Winchesters' backseat? How can he say no to that?" 

"Shut up," Dean said without heat. He hadn't yet thought of a good way to bring it up to Cas; they'd talked a lot these past few days—mostly stories of their pasts, both good and bad, little whispered secrets in the dark, laying close with one of Cas's wings draped over Dean like a living afghan—but neither of them had broached the subject of the future. Every time Dean was ready to spill his guts, Cas did something distracting like smile or sleep or breathe, and Dean put it off again. 

The bathroom door swung open, releasing a gentle cloud of steam. Cas stood in the doorway with one towel slung low on his hips with three or four more draped over his dripping wings. Fresh bandages covered his forearm and torso. "Dean, I'm sorry, I used the last of the clean towels but— Oh. Agent Coulson." Cas gave him a nod. Behind his shoulders, his wings shook with an animal's grace, shedding the soggy towels to the floor. 

"Glad you could join us," Coulson said with maddening calm. Dean tried to think of a way to shove the guy out of the penthouse without seeming _too_ rude; Castiel seemed to like the guy for some strange reason. 

"What's all this?" On cue, it seemed like, Cas stepped forward to examine the folders that Coulson was opening on the bed. 

"A job offer. An official one," he said, handing one folder to Cas. "As far as I'm concerned, you already passed the interview with flying colors." 

"You want Cas to work for SHIELD?" Dean blinked in disbelief. 

"Not just Castiel." Coulson lifted a folder in Dean's direction. "You too, Winchester."

" _Me_?" Dean shoved the folder right back. "Oh, no. I'm no spook. I'm not going to put on some suit and a badge and—"

"You were doing that when I met you. Except the badge was fake," Cas pointed out. 

"That was different. That—"

"Your positions, should you accept them," Coulson cut in cleanly, "would entail a unique degree of autonomy. You would have access to SHIELD's resources and intel, and you would be asked to participate in cases where your particular expertise would be especially helpful; most immediately, hunting down the remaining demons and acting as liaisons for those being freed from the Negative Zone."

"Cleaning up your messes, you mean." Dean scoffed.

Coulson ignored the barb. "But you would remain independent agents. I would be your handler, not your commanding officer. Your cases and how to conduct them would be your team's business." The folder was again deposited in Dean's hands.

"Team?" He flipped through it with barely concealed disdain, starting with the Classified stamp on the cover. "The Avengers Initiative? What the—? Codename _Sureshot_? Is that supposed to be my secret superhero name?" 

"All our field operatives are given callsigns," Coulson said. He adjusted his tie, looking, for the first time, a little miffed. "I was personally involved in the shortlist for yours." 

"Well, you can't say Sureshot three times fast, for one. And for another—"

"The Hulk and Iron Man have been brought in as well, if that in any way sways you," Coulson continued. "Mrs. Moseley, now known as God's Eye, has also agreed to join the team on a case-by-case basis. And, of course, Sam has already joined up under the callsign Sainted."

"He—? Are you serious?" Dean said. "He didn't tell me."

"He tried. It's been very difficult for us to reach you, what with your cell phone being off. And possibly thrown out the sixtieth floor window. That's why I'm here in person." 

"Saint Sammy, though?" Dean shook his head. "I can't believe—"

"I want in," Cas said suddenly, looking up from his dossier. 

Dean's mouth hung open, his finger still raised in mid-air. "What?"

"I'm in," Cas said more firmly. He dropped the open folder on the mattress. Dean tilted his head sideways to read the type at the top of the page: Codename Archangel. 

Dean blinked down at him. "Cas—"

"This is what I want, Dean," Cas said. "This is what I'm meant to do."

A long beat of silence held in the room until Coulson stood to adjust his tie. "I'll leave you to discuss the particulars. We don't need an answer today. Take your time," he said as he sidled from between them and let himself out. Dean watched him go before turning back to Cas. 

"On a scale of 1 to crazy, this is Tom Cruise," Dean said. Cas stared at him blankly. "And you don't even get what that means, so never mind! Cas, you just got—" Dean swallowed, his gaze flicking to Cas's bandages. But Cas would hate him for pointing out his vulnerability, so he didn't. "This is SHIELD, the same kind of guys you've been running from since you were a kid. Why would you want to join them?" 

"I—" Cas rubbed his right hand up and down his good forearm as if he was chilly, but Dean could tell it was just a nervous gesture. "I can't go back to my old life. I would feel ridiculous, sitting at my workbench when I could be out saving people, stopping demons." He looked imploringly into Dean's eyes. "I want to keep doing that. Don't you?"

"Yeah, but," he reached out and collected Cas's hands in his own, "going legit? I'm thinking rule books, paperwork, Nick Fury with his weird growling thing...."

"I'm thinking air support, tactical resources, Tony Stark's toys?" Cas rattled off. He pulled Dean into a kiss, something teasing that turned serious somewhere in the middle. When they parted, Cas didn't move much, just spoke against Dean's lips. "We could make this work, Dean."

Dean let out a deep breath. "I'm not putting on a catsuit."

"Of course not."

"Although." Dean scratched at his scruffy chin, getting scruffier from a day spent lazing around in bed. "I wouldn't say no to one of those thigh holsters."

"The world needs us and it's the promise of a thigh holster that has you interested?" Castiel's wings thumped against Dean's arms, his version of a playful slap. 

"Maybe," Dean said with a slow grin. "Or maybe I just don't want you to be out there alone." 

Cas's smile faltered. "I don't want you to agree to this just because I have."

"What, you think I'm some kind of copycat? Dude, I practically invented the vigilante justice gig," Dean said, leaning in to kiss him again. He tasted of the fancy mouthwash in the bathroom. "If you're sure about this, then I'm in too," he said when they parted, his voice quiet and suddenly serious. "You're— Cas, you make me feel like I could do anything. So let's do it." 

"Dean." His heavy, warm wings folded around him, followed by Cas's arms. "We're going to be heroes." 

Dean smiled into those blue eyes and nodded. "Okay. But seriously. No catsuit," he said as Cas kissed him silent. 

 

The End.

>   
>  Author's Note:  
>  First of all, thank you to Tone for listening to me whine over lunch, [brokentoy](http://brokentoy.livejournal.com/) for telling me I could do this, [akadougal](http://akadougal.livejournal.com/) for being good at the English, and [Jihime47](http://jihime47.livejournal.com/) for sighing in a put-upon manner. 
> 
> Thank you, [pandafoot105](http://pandafoot105.livejournal.com/), for the amazing art. I'm blown away by your generosity. I don't have the words for it. 
> 
> Thank you, [deancasbigbang](http://deancasbigbang.livejournal.com/) mods, you lovely, lovely mods. 
> 
> Thank you, tumblr, for enabling me. Thank you, Robert Downey, Jr., for being Tony Stark so thoroughly that I'm still a little skeptical about whether this universe is 616 or not. Thank you, Supernatural fandom, for being the biggest, craziest family of all. Thank you, Mark Ruffalo, for being Mark Ruffalo. Thank you, Dean & Cas, for being the ship that won't quit. Thank you, Ark, for the drink. Thank you, Squidy, for having better headcanons for demons than I do. 
> 
> Thank you, reader, for reading. This was quite a chunk of words, wasn't it? I hope you enjoyed the ride as much as I enjoyed making it up.  
> 


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